ingled home in her cab, feeling more giddy, more
heartsick than ever. There now came upon her with more potency than ever,
since now it was the matter immediately before her, the question what was
she to do? What was she to do? She had eluded Sir Tom on the night before,
and obliged him to accept, without any demand for explanation, her strange
retirement. But now what was she to do? Little Tom would not answer for a
pretext again. She must either resume the former habits of her life,
subdue herself entirely, meet him with a cheerful face, ignore the sudden
chasm that had been made between them--or---- She looked with terrified
eyes at this blank wall of impossibility, and could see no way through it.
Live with him as of old, in a pretence of union where no union could be,
or explain how it was that she could not do so. Both these things were
impossible--impossible!--and what, then, was she to do?

CHAPTER XLIII.

THE LITTLE HOUSE IN MAYFAIR.

The little house in Mayfair was very bright and gay. What conventional
words are those! It was nothing of the kind. It was dim and poetical. No
light that could be kept out of it was permitted to come in. The quality
of light in London, even in April, is not exquisite, and perhaps the
Contessa's long curtains and all the delicate draperies which she loved
to hang about her were more desirable to see than that very poor thing
in the way of daylight which exists in Mayfair. Bice, who was a child of
light, objected a little to this shutting out, and she would have
objected strongly, being young enough to love the sunshine for itself,
but for the exquisite reason which the Contessa gave for the interdict
she had put upon it. "Cara," she said, "if you were all white and red
like those English girls (it is _tant soit peu_ vulgar between
ourselves, and not half so effective as your _blanc mat_), then you
might have as much light as you pleased; but to put yourself in
competition with them on their own ground--no, Bice mia. But in this
light there is nothing to desire."

"Don't you think, then, Madama," said Bice, piqued, "that no light at
all would be better still, and not to be seen the best----"

"Darling!" said the Contessa, with that smile which embodied so many
things. It answered for encouragement and applause and gentle reproof,
and many other matters which words could but indifferently say, and it
was one of her favourite ways of turning aside a question to which she