tense at scruple, and
allowed matters to go as they would; she visited the young heiress
constantly, and smiled when she saw that her son was becoming, day by
day, more attracted to her. She noticed another thing, too, with keen
pleasure, and it was that, although the same number of letters came from
England, not half so many went there.

"A step in the right, direction," thought my lady; "I shall succeed
after all."

To do Lord Chandos justice, he was quite blind to the danger that
surrounded him. He intended to be true to Leone--he had no other desire,
no other wish--he had never contemplated for one moment the act of
deserting her; he would have denounced any one who even hinted at such a
thing.

But he was young, she was beautiful, they were in sunny Italy. And he
never dreamed of loving her.

They were friends, that was all; they were to be exceptions to the
general rule--they were to be friends, without any of the elements of
love or flirtation marring their intercourse.

Only friends. Yet in the beginning of May when Lady Cambrey and her ward
declined to return to England for the summer, but resolved to spend it
in Naples, Lord Chandos went there also, without feeling at all sure
that he would be back in London by June.

CHAPTER XXVII.

"TELL ME YOUR SECRET."

The sunny summer days at Nice--who can tell of their beauty, the glory
of the sunny blue sky, the glory of the foliage, the sweet, balmy breath
of the wind, which seemed daily to bring with it the perfume from a
hundred new flowers? How did the time pass? No one knew; it was a long
roll of pleasure and gayety. There was pleasure enough in being
out-of-doors; a picnic there was a very simple matter. They heard of a
very beautiful spot, drove there, remained there so long as it suited
them, then went back again. There were, as there always are, some very
nice English people at Nice, but none like fair, sweet Lady Marion.

As the charm of her sweet character grew upon him, Lord Chandos liked
her more and more. He enjoyed her society. She was not witty, she could
not amuse a whole room full of people, she could not create laughter,
she was not the cause of wit in others, nor did talking to her awake the
imagination and arouse all the faculties of one's mind.

Talking to her was rest, grateful as the shade of green trees after the
glare of the summer's sun. The sweet voice, the clear, refined accent,
the gracious and gentle thoughts, the apt