The clear, kindly morning sun lay over the straight handsome houses in Bedford Row and dazzled in the white dust of the wide street.

From the stucco porticoes of the mansions slanting shadows were cast over the doors. A woman in a blue cap crying “Chairs to mend!” moved slowly along; a few passers-by were gathered, with an air of curiosity, about an elegant green curricle that waited outside a house in no way different from the others, save that the shutters were up in every window but those on the second floor.

This equipage excited attention, not only by the manifest splendour of the white horses, the sumptuous livery of the footman, and the gold-plated harness, but by the fact that the small crest on the body of the chariot was that of the famous Lord Lyndwood, a name they all knew as that of the most brilliant personage in that brilliant but vague world of fashion that sparkled somewhere beyond their vision.

At one of the unshuttered windows stood the owner of the green chariot, observing languidly the prospect of the wide sunny street, broken by the little knot of people about the curricle, and the slow-moving figure of the chair-mender, with her slender bundle of canes under her arm.

Rose Lyndwood saw these things as a bright, expressionless picture. Even the blue sky arching the houses had no meaning; but the thick dust that stirred in the slow breeze and whitened the dry aspect of the street conveyed a quiet dreariness.

The Earl moved away from the window, and his half-veiled gaze dwelt on the details of the lofty chamber in which he waited.

Everything was very new, very magnificent. A cold, uncultured taste expressed itself in stiff, splendid furniture; in pictures selected for no reason, it seemed, but their bright colours and their massive frames, and in enormous mirrors that, rising from floor to ceiling, reflected their glories again and again after the manner of a public dancing-room.

The chairs and settees wore linen covers that concealed all but their shining gilt legs. There were no flowers in the painted vases nor any small or intimate object to disturb the stately expanses of the marble-topped tables and Japan cabinets; it appeared a room never often used and of late long shut up.

Rose Lyndwood walked softly up and down. He had his hat under his arm and his gloved hands clasped behind him; he wore an olive-green riding-coat, his hair unpowdered and plainly arranged.

He was utterly out of harmony with his surroundings. It might be that he was aware of this, for when he saw his image in the ostentatious mirrors he very slightly smiled, and not pleasantly.

The sunlight entered by the tall bare window and lay in a great square on the highly coloured carpet, dazzling in its passage on the flaunting gold of furniture and pictures.

Lord Lyndwood paced to and fro, glancing, when he reached the window, at the green chariot below, with its idle admirers, and at the empty street beyond, and when he reached the great glass the other end of the chamber at the reflection of his own superb person with that slight and sneering smile.

He was by the window when the heavy-carved door quickly opened, and a man stepped into the room.

Lord Lyndwood stood where he was.

“Good morning, Mr. Hilton,” he said.

The new-comer advanced.

“I have kept you waiting, my lord,” he said. “A domestic matter detained me.”

He looked at the Earl gravely, yet intently, and came nearer. He was a middle-aged man, heavy in build, with a commonplace countenance imparted by ambitions satisfied and a prosperity hardly attained and keenly relished.

He was dressed in plum-coloured velvet. Across his waistcoat was a watch-chain set with rubies that he fingered with his coarse left hand, as if he could not forget it; he wore a large, old-fashioned peruke heavily powdered, that, flowing on to his shoulders, gave a touch of remote dignity to his person, belied by his shrewd, alert face.

“Your lordship must excuse the disorder of my house,” he said. “We are but newly arrived in London.”

“I observe no disorder,” answered the Earl. His slow glance rested on the owner of the mansion. “It appears to me prodigious neat.”

Mr. Hilton bowed.

“Will you be seated, my lord?”

Rose Lyndwood moved to one of the stiff, awkward-looking sofas, and seated himself there, with his back to the light.

“You received my letter?” he asked, placing his hat beside him.

“I had that honour, my lord.”

Mr. Hilton placed himself in one of the covered chairs, sat erect in unconscious discomfort, and gazed at the Earl with narrowed eager eyes.

“Then there is the less for me to say,” answered Rose Lyndwood.

He sat carelessly, and his voice was languid, as if it were no great matter that he discussed; but his face was pale above the black stock, and his lips had the look of disdain that came to them when against his will he forced himself to touch affairs he wished to spurn.

“If your lordship’s object in this visit is what I imagine it to be,” said Mr. Hilton, “there is not much for us to discuss.”

Rose Lyndwood lifted his head; he did not look at the other man, but beyond him.

“A year ago, or nearly a year ago, Mr. Hilton, you and I met on a matter of business.” The disdainful smile was now unmistakable. “You, as one of the gentlemen connected with my banking house, knew, and know, something of my affairs.”

Mr. Hilton nodded, as if he heard what he had expected and was satisfied.

The Earl began to pull off his gloves slowly, loosening each finger first. He turned his eyes on Mr. Hilton, and they looked as dark as the velvet bat at the corner of his beautiful mouth.

“I was in difficulties then, you will remember, and you made a proposition to me that I rejected. How much of this need I recall to you?”

“I recollect it,” said Mr. Hilton, “perfectly.”

There was a hardly noticeable pause and a hardly noticeable effort on the part of the Earl before he spoke again.

“I am now an utterly ruined man.”

Mr. Hilton nodded for the second time, as if he listened to something that he knew, and yet something that he was pleased to hear put into words.

“I shall not even be able to save Lyndwood or the property in the North. My credit is strained to the utmost, and it is only a matter of days before the brokers seize even my personal effects.”

He smiled rather insolently and looked fixedly at his listener.

“Do you care to repeat what you said when last we met, Mr. Hilton?”

“The proposal I made you, my lord?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Hilton clasped the arm of his chair with his right hand; his left fondled the ruby watch-chain, his lips were set firmly, and a little sparkle danced in his eyes.

“I repeat that proposal, my lord.”

“You understand my position, Mr. Hilton—that I am a penniless man?”

“I understand, my lord, what a nobleman’s ruin means. I will assume the worst—that your debts are immense, the Jews outrageous, the creditors flint, that you have obligations, hungry relations and the like, and still I make you the offer I made you a year ago.”

Lord Lyndwood flushed faintly.

“I have come to accept it, Mr. Hilton.”

The elder man rose abruptly.

“I thought,” he said, in a soft tone, “that it could be only a question of time, my lord.”

The Earl was now on his feet, too.

“Let us put this matter formally,” he said, and his grey eyes were afire. “I request the honour of your daughter’s hand in marriage. Now is it Yes?”

The colour had deepened in his face, and the knot of the black silk cravat on his breast rose and fell quickly; but for that he had the appearance of complete composure.

“It is Yes, my lord,” answered Mr. Hilton. “From this moment Lavinia is your betrothed wife”—he uttered the words as if they gave him intense pleasure, and repeated them—“your betrothed wife.”

The Earl stood silent, his right hand closed down on the hilt of his sword, his eyes on Mr. Hilton, who took a sharp turn about the room, then stopped before him.

“What are your debts?” he asked; and his fingers were busily caressing his watch-chain. “How much do you owe the Jews, and what is the mortgage on Lyndwood? But no matter, that is a business affair, we must see the lawyers,” he smiled; “all shall be paid—every penny,” his smile deepened; “it is good to have money, is it not, my lord?”

“It is necessary,” said my lord, and he also smiled. “As I have found——”

Mr. Hilton moved slowly away and contemplated Rose Lyndwood out of wholly triumphant eyes.

The great chamber, the rich paintings, the gilt mirrors were his, bought with his money; this man, Rose Lyndwood, eighteenth Earl of Lyndwood, aristocrat and proud, the most famous beau in town, this man was his also, bought as surely as the gaudy furniture against which he stood. This was Mr. Hilton’s crude thought, and the Earl read it.

“You are satisfied?” he asked in a tone that was an insult.

“I am satisfied, my lord; the debts within a week, the wedding within a month.”

Rose Lyndwood picked up his gloves; Mr. Hilton waited for him to speak; when the words came they were unexpected.

“May I see Miss Hilton?” His voice was courteous again.

“She is in the house;” her father was instantly at the bell-rope—“yes, I should wish you to see her.”

My lord pulled out his glass and dangled it by the ribbon; he had an air of complete abstraction, of aloofness from his surroundings.

“A year ago Lavinia was at school,” said Mr. Hilton; “she has had the education of a noblewoman, my lord.”

Rose Lyndwood was silent; he looked past the speaker towards the door; glass and ribbon swung from his fine idle hand.

The bell had been obviously a signal, for it was the lady herself who entered.

She came a little way into the room.

“Lord Lyndwood, Lavinia,” muttered Mr. Hilton. He moved awkwardly from the hearth; embarrassment made him appear clumsy, even foolish; his daughter, too, stood dumb and fluttering, but the Earl was now perfectly at his ease.

He crossed to Miss Hilton and took her hand; she trembled a curtsey.

“I come as a suitor, madam,” he said, as he kissed her finger tips—“would it mightily displease you to become Countess of Lyndwood?”

Then he looked at the girl; he found her fair, pale, very young; to him, at least, without charm or savour; her large eyes seemed to widen with fright, her lips quivered.

“I am honoured,” she said, and glanced at her father, then down again at the floor.

“And I am grateful, Miss Hilton,” smiled Lord Lyndwood, “that I have your consent—for it is a consent, is it not?”

“Yes, my lord,” then she moved suddenly away from him. “Sir,” she addressed her father, “will you permit me to retire?”

The eyes of the two men met for a second across her shrinking presence.

Miss Hilton had not come more than a few paces from the door; and now she retreated towards it, with lowered eyes.

“When may I wait on you, madam?” asked the Earl. “You must send me your command.”

Again she looked towards her father, who was regarding her with a mixture of shame and pride extraordinary to see.

“Ask my father, sir,” she answered, and showed such a piteous desire to be gone that he could not but open the door for her.

Mr. Hilton strode up and down the lengthening patch of sunlight.

“She is shy, my lord, you must forgive it; but a charming girl, for any situation, charming—and now for the lawyers; make your own appointment, my lord.”

Rose Lyndwood came across the room eyeing him.

“A moment, Mr. Hilton; have you or I thought over what we are doing?”

Suspicion clouded the older man’s face.

“What do you mean?” he asked sharply.

The young Earl flushed and his eyes darkened.

“I think of Miss Hilton—this—bargain concerns her, does it not?”

The merchant was cautious, as one dealing with qualities strange to him.

“Still I do not understand, my lord.”

Rose Lyndwood answered on a quick scornful breath.

“You know my motive in this matter, Mr. Hilton, and your own—brutal words could not make it clearer between us than it is now—but what of your daughter, is it fair to her?”

The other fumbled for the meaning behind these words.

“This is a curious thing for you to say, Lord Lyndwood.”

“I speak against my own advantage, Mr. Hilton, which lies in this match,” he smiled bitterly; “and Gad, I know not why I do speak save that there is no one else to say to you—reflect.”

Mr. Hilton frowned heavily.

“Do you seek to evade the contract pledged between us?”

The Earl’s voice was stormy as he answered.

“This is a sordid enough business, sir; believe me I do not find it pleasant.” He checked himself, then flashed out again, haughtily, “I have seen Miss Hilton, and I have seen she is reluctant to become my wife. God in Heaven! do you not understand? What can you offer her? I am not famous for the domestic virtues.”

Mr. Hilton was quick now to think he saw the intention behind the words.

“I am not asking for your reformation, my lord,” he answered. “I expect nothing but to see my daughter your wife.”

“And I,” said Rose Lyndwood, “was thinking not of you nor of myself, but of Miss Hilton; is it not possible for you to comprehend that?”

The expression of baited anger returned to Mr. Hilton’s intent face.

“What does this mean?” he asked. “That ye seek to evade what ye have pledged yourself to, my lord?”

“Leave the matter, I pray you”—it was almost as if he addressed his servant—“I spoke from a passing impulse, a foolish one.” He picked up his hat from the linen cover of the settee; his manner closed the subject.

Mr. Hilton, baffled but appeased, was silent, fondling his watch-chain.

“Monday will be convenient to me,” said Lord Lyndwood. “I shall look to see you then, at my house, about twelve of the clock. My lawyer will be acquainted.”

“And the betrothal shall be made public at once,” assented Mr. Hilton.

He glanced up at Rose Lyndwood and was surprised into an exclamation.

“What is the matter?” asked the Earl quietly.

“You looked so pale, my lord; I thought you were ill.”

The Earl’s heavy lids almost concealed his eyes; he smiled, ignoring both the remark and the speaker.

“I shall await you on Monday; now I must no longer trespass on your time—au revoir.” He bowed, not it seemed to Mr. Hilton, but to some intangible quality in the room, and turned to the door, swinging his gloves.

The older man was profuse and respectful in his leave-taking; my lord smiled beyond and above him, remote in an unnatural composure.

Mr. Hilton accompanied him down the stairs, not forgoing the moment on the doorstep when the idlers round the green chariot turned agape to see the Earl, to mark his companion and the intimate manner of their parting.

My lord was still noticeably pale when he mounted the curricle; as he gathered up the reins he shuddered.

The groom sprang to his place behind and the impatient white horses trampled the dust with joy.

My lord looked over his shoulder and saw Mr. Hilton lingering on the doorstep—he stood up and whispered to the horses.

As the chariot sped glittering down the street, one of the loiterers hailed a new-comer:

“There goes Lord Lyndwood—driving like the devil!”