fixed on Hugh.

Hugh's face became suddenly ugly, livid. He rose slowly to his feet, and
stood motionless.

"He hates her," said Lord Newhaven to himself. And he removed his glance
and came forward.

"You were looking for me, Violet?" he remarked. "I have no doubt you are
wishing to return home. We will go at once." He threw away his
cigarette. "Well, good-bye, Scarlett, in case we don't meet again. I
dare say you will pay Westhope a visit later on. Ah, Captain Pratt! so
you have fled, like us, from the madding crowd. I can recommend Loftus's
cigarettes. I have just had one myself. Good-bye. Did you leave your
purchases in the hall, Violet? Yes? Then we will collect them on our
way."

The husband and wife were half-way down the grand staircase before Lord
Newhaven said, in his usual even voice:

"I must ask you once more to remember that I will not have any scandal
attaching to your name. Did not you see that that white mongrel Pratt
was on your track? If I had not been there when he came in he would have
drawn his own vile conclusions, and for once they would have been
correct."

"He could not think worse of me than you do," said the wife, half cowed,
half defiant.

"No, but he could say so, which I don't; or, what is more probable, he
could use his knowledge to obtain a hold over you. He is a dangerous
man. Don't put yourself in his power."

"I don't want to, or in anybody's."

"Then avoid scandal instead of courting it, and don't repeat the folly
of this afternoon."

* * * * *

Captain Pratt did not remain long in the smoking-room. He had only a
slight acquaintance with Hugh, which did not appear capable of
expansion. Captain Pratt made a few efforts, proved its inelastic
properties, and presently lounged out again.

Hugh moved slowly to the window, and leaned his throbbing forehead
against the stone mullion. He was still weak, and the encounter with
Lady Newhaven had shaken him.

"What did he mean?" he said to himself, bewildered and suspicious.
"'Perhaps I should be staying at Westhope later on!' But, of course, I
shall never go there again. He knows that as well as I do. What did he
mean?"

CHAPTER XXXI

The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the wing.
--OMAR KHAYYAM.

It was the third week of November. Winter, the destroyer, was late, but
he had come at last. There was death in the a