every word, he took more pride and pleasure in his public life
than he had ever done before; he liked to hear her criticisms on his
opinions and actions; he was delighted with the interest she took in his
works.

At times the visits he paid were all occupied with the discussion of
these details. He would tell her of some great oration or speech that he
intended to make on some important measure, she would talk it over to
him, and her marvelous intelligence, her bright wit and originality
always threw some new light on the matter, some more picturesque view.
In this she differed from Lady Marion, who was more timid and retiring,
who looked upon everything connected with public life as a dreadful
ordeal, who, fond as she was of literature, could not read a newspaper,
who, dearly as she loved her husband, could not interest herself in his
career.

So gradually and slowly the old love threw its glamour over them, slowly
the master passion took its place again in Lord Chandos' life, but just
at that time it was unknown to himself. It came at last that the only
real life for him was the time spent with her--the morning hours when he
discussed all the topics of the day with her, and the evening when he
leaned over his opera box, his eyes drinking in the marvelous beauty of
her face.

Then, as a matter of course, Lady Marion began to wonder where he went.
He had been accustomed, when he had finished his breakfast, always to
consult her about the day's plans--whether she liked to walk, ride, or
drive, and he had always been her companion; but now it often happened
that he would say to her:

"Marion, drive with my mother this morning, she likes to have you with
her; my father goes out so little, you know."

She always smiled with the most amiable air of compliance with his
wishes, but she looked up at him on this particular morning.

"Where are you going, Lance?" she asked. Her eyes took in, in their
quiet fashion, every detail of his appearance, even to the dainty exotic
in his button-hole.

Lord Chandos had a habit of blushing--his dark face would flush like a
girl's when any sudden emotion stirred him--it did so now, and she, with
wondering eyes, noticed the flush.

"Why, Lance," she said, "you are blushing; blushing just like a girl,
because I just asked you where you were going."

And though the fiery red burned the dark skin, he managed to look calmly
at his wife and say:

"You are always fanciful over me, Mari