bear with
me--hear me. All his sins lie in the past. He----"

"You must be mad to talk to me like this," interrupts Isabel, flushing
crimson. "Has he asked you to intercede for him? Could even he go so far
as that? Is it a last insult? What are you to him that you thus adopt
his cause. Answer me!" cries she imperiously; all her coldness, her
stern determination to suppress herself, seems broken up.

"Nothing!" returns Lady Swansdown, becoming calmer as she notes the
other's growing vehemence. "I never shall be anything. I have but one
excuse for my interference"--She pauses.

"And that!"

"I love him!" steadily, but faintly. Her eyes have sought the ground.

"Ah!" says Lady Baltimore.

"It is true"--slowly. "It is equally true--that he--does not love me.
Let me then speak. All his sins, believe me, lie behind him. That woman,
that friend of yours who told you of his renewed acquaintance with
Madame Istray, lied to you! There was no truth in what she said!"

"I can quite understand your not wishing to believe in that story," says
Lady Baltimore with an undisguised sneer.

"Like all good women, you can take pleasure in inflicting a wound," says
Lady Swansdown, controlling herself admirably. "But do not let your
detestation of me blind you to the fact that my words contain truth. If
you will listen I can----"

"Not a word," says Lady Baltimore, making a movement with her hands as
if to efface the other. "I will have none of your confidences."

"It seems to me"--quickly--"you are determined not to believe."

"You are at liberty to think as you will."

"The time may come," says Lady Swansdown, "when you will regret you did
not listen to me to-day."

"Is that a threat?"

"No; but I am going. There will be no further opportunity for you to
hear me."

"You must pardon me if I say that I am glad of that," says Lady
Baltimore, her lips very white. "I Could have borne little more. Do what
you will--go where you will--with whom you will" (with deliberate
insult), "but at least spare me a repetition of such a scene as this."

She turns, and with an indescribably haughty gesture leaves the room.

CHAPTER XLV.

"The name of the slough was Despond."

Dancing is going on in the small drawing-room. A few night broughams are
still arriving, and young girls, accompanied by their brothers only, are
making the room look lovely. It is quite an impromptu affair, quite
informal. Dicky Browne, altogether in h