"So they are! She doesn't care for these people a bit. They are mere
acquaintances."

"Whom does she care for then?" asked Thelma suddenly. "Of course I mean
after her husband. Naturally she loves him best."

"Naturally," and Philip paused, adding, "she has her son--Ernest--he's a
fine bright boy--he was not there to-night. You must see him some day.
Then I think her favorite friend is Mrs. Rush-Marvelle."

"I do like that lady too," said Thelma. "She spoke very kindly to me and
kissed me."

"Did she really!" and Philip smiled. "I think she was more to be
congratulated on taking the kiss than you in receiving it! But she's not
a bad old soul,--only a little too fond of money. But, Thelma, whom do
_you_ care for most? You did tell me once, but I forget!"

She turned her lovely face and star-like eyes upon him, and, meeting his
laughing look, she smiled.

"How often must I tell you!" she murmured softly. "I do think you will
never tire of hearing! You know that it is you for whom I care most, and
that all the world would be empty to me without you! Oh, my husband--my
darling! do not make me try to tell you how much I love you! I
cannot--my heart is too full!"

The rest of their drive homeward was very quiet--there are times when
silence is more eloquent than speech.

CHAPTER XXI.

"A small cloud, so slight as to be a mere speck on the fair blue
sky, was all the warning we received."--PLINY.

After that evening great changes came into Thelma's before peaceful
life. She had conquered her enemies, or so it seemed,--society threw
down all its barricades and rushed to meet her with open arms.
Invitations crowded upon her,--often she grew tired and bewildered in
the multiplicity of them all. London life wearied her,--she preferred
the embowered seclusion of Errington Manor, the dear old house in
green-wooded Warwickshire. But the "season" claimed her,--its frothy
gaieties were deemed incomplete without her--no "at home" was considered
quite "the" thing unless she was present. She became the centre of a
large and ever-widening social circle,--painters, poets, novelists, wits
savants, and celebrities of high distinction crowded her rooms, striving
to entertain her as well as themselves with that inane small talk and
gossip too often practiced by the wisest among us,--and thus surrounded,
she began to learn many puzzling and painful things of which in her old
Norwegian life, she had been happily ignorant.