for that matter--ever
spoken to one or other of us, I wonder, of some fancy of his or her
bygone days; one whose greeting, company manners apart, was an embrace;
whose letters were opened greedily; whose smile was rapture, and whose
frown a sleepless night? If he or she did so, was the outcome better
than the Countess's?

She wanted to run away, but could not just yet. She made believe to talk
over antecedents--making a conversation of indescribable baldness, and
setting Irene's shrewd wits to work to find out why. It was not _her_
brother, but her husband's, who had been Sir Hamilton's college-friend.
Yes, her father was well acquainted with Mr. Canning, and so on. This
was her contribution to general chat, until such time had elapsed as
would warrant departure and round the visit plausibly off.

It was Clarges Street that had done it. Irene was sure of that! She, the
daughter of the Miss Abercrombie her father had married, sitting there
and coming to conclusions!

However, the Countess meant to go--no doubt of it. "You have paid my
brother such a short visit, after all," said Irene. "Please don't go
away because you fancy you are tiring him." But it was no use. Her
ladyship meant to go, and went. Regrets of all sorts, of course;
explanatory insincerities about stringent obligations elsewhere; even
specific allegations of expected guests; false imputation of exacting
claims to the Earl. All with one upshot--departure.

Gwen had taken little or no notice of what was passing, since that
betraying incident of the Crown Derby set. Her mind was at work on
schemes for discovery of the truth about those eyes. She got on the
track of a good one. If she could only contrive to be alone with him for
one moment. Yes--it _was_ worth trying?

It was her mother's inexplicable alacrity to be gone that gave the
opportunity. Her ladyship said good-bye to Mr. Torrens; was sorry she
had to go, but the Earl was so fussy about anything the least like an
appointment--some concession to conscience in the phrasing of this--in
short, go she must! Having committed herself thus, to wait for her
daughter would have been the merest self-stultification. She went out
multiplying apologies, and Irene naturally accompanied her along
the lobby, assisted and sanctioned by Achilles. Gwendolen was
alone with the man who was still credited with sight enough to see
_something_--provided that it was a palpable something. Now--if she
could only play her