eyes met, hers full of one eager question. His lips parted; her
whole life seemed to hang on the word that was coming from his lips.

"Is it true?" she repeated.

He tried to speak falsely, he would have given much for the power to say
"No." He knew that one word would content her--that she would believe it
implicitly, and that she would never renew the question. Still with that
fair, pure face before him--with those clear eyes fixed on him--he could
not speak falsely, he could not tell a lie. He could have cried aloud
with anguish, yet he answered, proudly:

"It is true, Marion."

"True?" she repeated, vacantly, "true, Lance?"

"Yes, the gossips have reported correctly; it is quite true."

But he was not prepared for the effect of the words on her. Her fair
face grew pale, her tender arms released their hold and fell.

"True?" she repeated, in a low, faint voice, "true that you took Madame
Vanira out for a day, and that you were seen by these people with her?"

"Yes, it is true," he replied.

And the poor child flung her arms in the air, as she cried out:

"Oh, Lance, it is a sword in my heart, and it has wounded me sorely."

CHAPTER LII.

A GATHERING CLOUD.

It was strange that she should use the same words which Leone had used.

"I cannot bear it, Lance," she said. "Why have you done this?"

He was quite at a loss what to say to her; he was grieved for her, vexed
with those who told her, and the mental emotions caused him to turn
angrily round to her.

"Why did you take her? What is Madame Vanira to you?" she asked.

"My dear Marion, can you see any harm in my giving madame a day's
holiday and rest, whether on water or on land?"

She was silent for a minute before she answered him.

"No," she replied, "the harm lay in concealing it from me; if you had
told me about it I would have gone with you."

Poor, simple, innocent Lady Marion! The words touched him deeply; he
thought of the boat among the water-lilies, the beautiful, passionate
voice floating over the water, the beautiful, passionate face, with its
defiance as the words of the sweet, sad song fell from her lips.

"Lance, why did you not tell me? Why did you not ask me to go with you?
I cannot understand."

When a man has no proper excuse to make, no sensible reason to give, he
takes refuge in anger. Lord Chandos did that now; he was quite at a loss
what to say; he knew that he had done wrong; that he could say nothing
which co