ge of the near
neighbourhood of that eminently good-natured presence. Lord Shotover's
very obvious faults faded from her remembrance. She estimated him only
by his size, his physical strength, his large indulgence of all
weaknesses--including his own. He constituted a link between her and
things ordinary and average, for which she was rather absurdly thankful
at this juncture. For the minutes passed slowly, very slowly. It must
be getting on for half an hour since little Lady Constance, trembling
and visibly affrighted, had passed out of sight, and the door of the
smoking-room had closed behind her. The nameless agitation which
possessed her earlier that same evening returned upon Honoria St.
Quentin. But its character had suffered change. The questioning of the
actual, the suspicion of universal illusion, had departed, and in its
place she suffered alarm of the concrete, of the incalculable force of
human passion, and of a manifestation of tragedy in some active and
violent form. She did not define her own fears, but they surrounded her
nevertheless, so that the slightest sound made her start.

For, indeed, how slowly the minutes did pass! Lord Shotover was walking
again. The horse rattled its bit, and pawed the ground impatient of
delay. Though lofty, the room appeared close and hot, with drawn blinds
and shut windows. Honoria began to move about restlessly, threading her
way between the pieces of shrouded furniture. A chalk drawing of Lady
Calmady stood on an easel in the far corner. The portrait emphasised
the sweetness and abiding pathos, rather than the strength, of the
original, and Honoria, standing before it, put her hands over her eyes.
For the pictured face seemed to plead with and reproach her. Then a
swift fear took her of disloyalty, of hastiness, of self-confidence
trenching on cruelty. She had announced, rather arrogantly, that
whatever balance debt remained to be paid, in respect of Sir Richard
and Lady Constance Quayle's proposed marriage, should be paid by the
man. But would the man, in point of fact, pay it? Would it not, must it
not, be paid, eventually, by this other noble and much enduring
woman--whom she had called her friend, and towards whom she played the
part, as she feared, of betrayer? In her hot espousal of Lady
Constance's cause she had only saved one woman at the expense of
another--Oh! how hot the room grew! Suffocating--Lord Shotover's steps
died away in the distance. She could look La