fatigued: that I have done too much in London and
here. Life in Westmoreland was very different,' she added, with a sigh,
and a touch of wonder that the Lesbia Haselden, whose methodical life
had never been stirred by a ruffle of passion, could have been the same
flesh and blood--yes, verily, the same woman, whose heart throbbed so
vehemently to-night, whose brain seemed on fire.

'Are you sure there is nothing the matter?' he asked, with a faint
quiver in his voice.

'What should there be the matter?'

'Who can say? God knows that I know no cause for evil. I am honest
enough, and faithful enough, Lesbia. But your face to-night is like a
presage of calamity, like the dull, livid sky that goes before a
thunderstorm.'

'I hope there is no thunderbolt coming,' she answered, lightly. 'What
very tall talk about a headache, for really that is all that ails me.
Hark, they have begun "My Queen." I am engaged for this waltz.'

'I am sorry for that.'

'So am I. I would ever so much rather have stayed out here.'

Two hours later, in the steely morning light, when sea and land and sky
had a metallic look as if lit by electricity, Lady Lesbia stood with her
chaperon and her affianced husband on the landing stage belonging to the
club, ready to step into the boat in which six swarthy seamen in red
shirts and caps were to row them back to the yacht. Mr. Smithson drew
the warm _sortie de bal_, with its gold-coloured satin lining and white
fox border, closer round Lesbia's slender form.

'You are shivering,' he said; 'you ought to have warmer wraps.

'This is warm enough for St. Petersburg. I am only tired--very tired.'

'The _Cayman_ will rock you to sleep.'

Don Gomez was standing close by, waiting for his host. The two men were
to walk up the hill to Formosa, a village with a classic portico,
delightfully situated above the town.

'What time are we to come to breakfast? asked Mr. Smithson.

'Not too early, in mercy's name. Two o'clock in the afternoon, three,
four;--why not make it five--combine breakfast with afternoon tea,'
exclaimed Lady Kirkbank, with a tremendous yawn. 'I never was so
thoroughly fagged; I feel as if I had been beaten with sticks,
basti--what's its name.'

She was leaning all her weight upon Mr. Smithson, as he handed her down
the steps and into the boat. Her normal weight was not a trifle, and
this morning she was heavy with champagne and sleep. Carefully as
Smithson supported her she gave a lur