ove," kneeling by her, "bear with me. It's a fascination,
an infatuation--an intellectual disloyalty to you, if you will--but it
is nothing more, and it must die out soon."

Lady Dering was a charming woman: all her friends agreed upon that
point, and also upon another--that an invitation to visit Stokeham
Park was equivalent to a guarantee for so many days of unalloyed
pleasure. It was a grand old place, not quite three hours from town,
with winding broad avenues and glimpses of sweeping smooth lawns
between the oaks and beeches. And the company which the mistress of
Stokeham had gathered about her this autumn was, if possible, a more
congenial and yet varied one than usual. Having no children of her
own, Lady Dering enjoyed especially the society of young people, and
generally contrived to have a goodly number of them about her--Mildred
and Mabel Masham, Lady Isobel French, Lady Florence Ffolliott, her
cousin the little Viscount Harleigh--who was very far gone in love
with his uncle's daughter, by the by--the Hon. Hugh Leroy Chandoce and
a host of others.

Her ladyship, telegram in hand, has just knocked at Florence
Ffolliott's door. Florence is a special favorite with the old lady:
she approves thoroughly of her engagement, which was formally
announced at Stokeham last year, and of the man of her choice, who at
the present moment is lighting a cigar and cogitating in a somewhat
ruffled frame of mind over the piece of news he has just been made
acquainted with by his hostess.

"Florence, my dear," says her ladyship, "I am the most fortunate
woman in the world. I have been longing for a new star in my domestic
firmament, and, behold! it dawns. I expected to have her here some
time, but not so early as this; and the charming creature sends me a
telegram that she arrives by the eleven-o'clock express this morning:
I have just sent to the station for her. I met Roy on my way to you,
and conveyed the intelligence to him, but of course he only looked
immensely bored: these absurd men! they never can take an interest in
but one woman at a time." Lady Florence's quick color came naturally
enough. "Now, my child, guess the name of the new luminary."

"I'm quite sure I can't," says the girl, her roses paling to their
usual pink. "Tell me, dear Lady Dering: suspense is terrible;" and she
laughs merrily.

"Hyacinthe King, the great actress, my dear: could anything be more
delicious?" Lady Dering has been absent on the Conti