an never gets beyond 'Yes' or 'No' unless required, and
even then only under heavy pressure. But what appointment can she have?
And who is secreted in her room? Pshaw! Her dressmaker, no doubt."

But, for all that, he can't quite reconcile himself to the dressmaker
theory, and, but that honor forbids, would have marched straight,
without any warning, into "my lady's chamber."

Getting inside the heavy hanging curtains, he employs his time watching
through the window the people passing to and fro, all intent upon the
great business of life,--the making and spending of money.

After a little while a carriage stops beneath him, and he sees Cecil
alight from it and go with eager haste up the steps. He hears her
enter, run up the stairs, pause upon the landing, and then, going into
the boudoir, close the door carefully behind her.

He stifles an angry exclamation, and resolves, with all the airs of a
Spartan, to be calm. Nevertheless, he is _not_ calm, and quite
doubles the amount of minutes that really elapse before the
drawing-room door is thrown open and Cecil, followed by Luttrell, comes
in.

"Luttrell, of all men!" thinks Sir Penthony, as though he would have
said, "Et tu, Brute?" forgetting to come forward,--forgetting
everything,--so entirely has a wild, unreasoning jealousy mastered him.
The curtains effectually conceal him, so his close proximity remains a
secret.

Luttrell is evidently in high spirits. His blue eyes are bright, his
whole air triumphant. Altogether, he is as unlike the moony young man
who left the Victoria Station last evening as one can well imagine.

"Oh, Cecil! what should I do without you?" he says, in a most heartfelt
manner, gazing at her as though (thinks Sir Penthony) he would much
like to embrace her there and then. "How happy you have made me! And
just as I was on the point of despairing! I owe you all,--everything,--the
best of my life."

"I am glad you rate what I have done for you so highly. But you know,
Tedcastle, you were always rather a favorite of mine. Have you forgiven
me my stony refusal of last night? I would have spoken willingly, but
you know I was forbidden."

"What is it I would _not_ forgive you?" exclaims Luttrell,
gratefully.

("Last night; and again this morning: probably he will dine this
evening," thinks Sir Penthony, who by this time is black with rage and
cold with an unnamed fear.)

Cecil is evidently as interested in her topic as her companion. Their