t the kiss he had given
to one fair woman must have stabbed the heart of the other, and he would
rather have done anything than that it should have happened. There came
to him like a flash of lightning the remembrance of that first home at
River View, and the white arms that were clasped round his neck when he
entered there; and he knew that the same memory rankled in the heart of
the beautiful woman whose face had suddenly grown pale as his own.

The air had grown like living flame to Leone; the pain which stung her
was so sharp she could have cried aloud with the anguish of it. It was
well nigh intolerable to see his arm round her, to see him draw her fair
face and head to him, to see his lips seek hers and rest on them. The
air grew like living flames; her heart beat fast and loud; her hands
burned. All that she had lost by woman's intrigue and man's injustice
this fair, gentle woman had gained. A red mist came before her eyes; a
rush, as of many waters, filled her ears. She bit her lips to prevent
the loud and bitter cry that seemed as though it must escape her.

Then Lord Chandos hastened to place a chair for her, and tried to drive
from her mind all recollection of the little incident.

"You are looking for some music, madame," he said, "from which I may
augur the happy fact that you intended to sing. Let me pray that you
will not change your intention."

"Lady Chandos asked me to try her piano," she said shyly.

"I told Madame Vanira how sweet and silvery the tone of it is, Lance,"
said Lady Chandos.

And again Leone shrunk from hearing on another woman's lip the word she
had once used. It was awkward, it was intolerable; it struck her all at
once with a sense of shame that she had done wrong in ever allowing Lord
Chandos to speak to her again. But then he had pleaded so, he had seemed
so utterly miserable, so forlorn, so hopeless, she could not help it.
She had done wrong in allowing Lady Marion to make friends with her;
Lady Marion was her enemy by force of circumstances, and there ought not
to have been even one word between them. Yet she pleaded so eagerly, it
had seemed quite impossible to resist her.

She was roused from her reverie by the laughing voice of Lady Marion,
over whose fair head so dark a cloud hung.

"Madame Vanira," she was saying, "ask my husband to sing with you. He
has a beautiful voice, not a deep, rolling bass, as one would imagine
from the dark face and tall, stalwart figure, but