at I must not think of it."

"You must give up thinking about her, of course," Lady Caroom said,
"until--" Until what?

"Until you can ask her--if ever you do ask her--to marry you in your
proper name."

Brooks set his teeth and walked up and down the little room.

"That," he said, "may be never."

"Exactly," Lady Caroom agreed. "That is why I am suggesting that you do
not see her so often."

He stopped opposite her.

"Does he--does Lord Arranmore know anything of this?"

She shook her head.

"Not from me. He may have heard whispers. To tell you the truth, I
myself have been asked questions during the last few days. You have
been seen about a good deal with Sybil, and you are rather a mystery to
people. That is why I felt compelled to speak." He nodded. "I see!"

"You must not blame me," she went on, softly. "You know, Kingston, that
I like you, that I would give you Sybil willingly under ordinary
circumstances. I don't want to speak to her if I can help it. And,
Kingston, there is one thing more I must say to you. It is on my mind.
It keeps me awake at night. I think that it will make an old woman of
me very soon. If--if we should be wrong?"

"There is no possibility of that," he answered, sadly. "Lord Arranmore
is candour itself, even in his selfishness."

"His face haunts me," she murmured. "There is something so terribly
impersonal, so terribly sad about it. He looks on at everything, he
joins in nothing. They say that he gambles, but he never knows whether
he is winning or losing. He gives entertainments that are historical,
and remains as cold as ice to guests whom a prince would be glad to
welcome. His horse won that great race the other day, and he gave up
his place on the stand, just before the start, to a little girl, and
never even troubled to watch the race, though his winnings were
enormous. He bought the Frivolity Theatre, produced this new farce, and
has never been seen inside the place. What does it mean, Kingston?
There must be suffering behind all this--terrible suffering."

"It is a law of retribution," Brooks said, coldly. "He has made other
people suffer all his life. Now perhaps his turn has come. He spends
fortunes trying to amuse himself and cannot. Are we to pity him for
that?"

"I have heard of people," she said, looking at him intently, "who are
too proud to show the better part of themselves, who rather than court
pity or even sympathy will wear a mask always, will hide the