f her at all in the matter,
save to conclude her a true pupil of the guardian whom most of them
believed to be her mother. But in this point where the others were
wanting Lucy came in, whose simple heart bled for the girl about to be
sacrificed to a man whom she could not love. Thus tragical surmises
floated in the air about Madame di Forno-Populo, that arch plotter whose
heart was throbbing indeed with her success, and the hope of successes
to come, but who had no tragical alarms in her breast. She was perfectly
easy in her mind about Sir Tom and Lucy. Even if a matrimonial quarrel
should be the result, what was that to an experienced woman of the
world, who knew that such things are only for the minute? and neither
Bice nor Montjoie caused her any alarm. Bice was perfectly pleased with
the little Marquis. He amused her. She had not the slightest objection
to him; and as for Montjoie, he was perfectly well able to take care of
himself. So that while everybody else was more or less anxious, the
Contessa in the centre of all her webs was perfectly tranquil. She was
not aware that she wished harm to any man, or woman either. Her light
heart and easy conscience carried her quite triumphantly through all.

When Montjoie had gone away, carrying in his pocket-book the address of
the little house in Mayfair, and when the party had dispersed to walk or
ride or drive, as each thought fit, Lucy, who was doing neither, met her
husband coming out of his den. Sir Tom was full of a remorseful sense
that he had wronged Lucy. He took her by both hands, and drew her into
his room. It was a long time since he had met her with the same
effusion. "You are looking very serious," he said, "you are vexed, and I
don't wonder; but I see land, Lucy. It will be over directly--only a
week more----"

"I thought you were looking serious, Tom," she said.

"So I was, my love. All that business last night was more than I could
stand. You may think me callous enough, but I could not stand that."

"Tom!" said Lucy, faltering. It seemed an opportunity she could not let
slip--but how she trembled between her two terrors! "There is something
that I want to say to you."

"Say whatever you like, Lucy," he cried; "but for God's sake don't
tremble, my little woman, when you speak to me. I've done nothing to
deserve that."

"I am not trembling," said Lucy, with the most innocent and transparent
of falsehoods. "But oh, Tom, I am so sorry, so unhappy."

"F