'Sbud!" he bleated. "Let me die!
The audaciousness of the creature! And behold me the port and glance of
her! Cold as a vestal, let me perish!"

Lady Mary turned with the others to look in the direction he was
pointing--pointing openly, with no thought of dissembling.

Mr. Caryll's eyes fell upon Mistress Winthrop, and his glance was oddly
perceptive. He observed those matters of which Mr. Craske had seemed
to make sardonic comment: the erect stiffness of her carriage, the eyes
that looked neither to right nor left, and the pallor of her face.
He observed, too, the complacent air with which her ladyship advanced
beside her husband's ward, her fan moving languidly, her head nodding
to her acquaintance, as in supreme unconcern of the stir her coming had
effected.

Mr. Caryll had been dull indeed, knowing what he knew, had he not
understood to the full the humiliation to which Mistress Hortensia was
being of purpose set submitted.

And just then Rotherby, who had turned, with Wharton and another now,
came by them again. This time he halted, and his companions with him,
for just a moment, to address his mother. She turned; there was an
exchange of greetings, in which Mistress Hortensia standing rigid as
stone--took no part. A silence fell about; quizzing-glasses went up; all
eyes were focussed upon the group. Then Rotherby and his friends resumed
their way.

"The dog!" said Mr. Caryll, between his teeth, but went unheard by
any, for in that moment Dorothy Deller--the younger of the Lady Mary's
cousins--gave expression to the generous and as yet unsullied little
heart that was her own.

"Oh, 'tis shameful!" she cried. "Will you not go speak with her, Molly?"

The Lady Mary stiffened. She looked at the company about her with an
apologetic smile. "I beg that ye'll not heed the child," said she.
"'Tis not that she is without morals--but without knowledge. An innocent
little fool; no worse."

"'Tis bad enough, I vow," laughed an old beau, who sought fame as a man
of a cynical turn of humor.

"But fortunately rare," said Mr. Caryll dryly. "Like charity, almost
unknown in this Babylon."

His tone was not quite nice, although perhaps the Lady Mary was the only
one to perceive the note of challenge in it. But Mr. Craske, the
poet, diverted attention to himself by a prolonged, malicious chuckle.
Rotherby was just moving away from his mother at that moment.

"They've never a word for each other to-day!" he cried. "Oh, 'S