The curious perfume of the lilies in the tall red pots was so strong that my lord opened the long windows on to the night.

“The moon is just rising,” he said, and lingered a little, looking out.

He was alone with Marius in the beautiful room overlooking the terrace. Through the folding door standing open into the next chamber might be seen Miss Chressham seated at her harp and the dowager Lady Lyndwood lying back gracefully with an open book on her knee.

It was difficult for any of them to realise there was a new mistress of the house, a new Countess of Lyndwood under the very same roof. These four were so much the same as they had always been. The lazy luxury of Lyndwood Holt was unchanged; yet but for this stranger they would have been scattered, and others in their places here.

The candle-light showed the rich fittings, the splendid furniture. The elegant melody of the harp sounded delicately in keeping with the fine chambers. Marius, listening to it, sighed, in sentimental mood.

My lord had spoken to him. Frankly and charmingly, Marius had asked his pardon and expressed his gratitude. They felt themselves, perhaps, better friends than they had been since they were boys. Rose was pleased that he had made his brother happy, secretly flattered and touched by being able to play the bountiful, and Marius was honestly grateful.

Presently my lord returned from the window. He was splendidly attired. The cloud that darkened his face on his arrival had lifted; he was a little flushed, and his eyes were dark, as if with excitement, otherwise he was composed and pleasant.

The Countess Lavinia had not appeared since she entered the house, nor had Rose mentioned her. Susannah and Marius had been silent about her, too, but my lady was able to bring her name naturally into their conversation.

The Earl leant against the mantelpiece; the pale-pink silk he wore caught the light and glimmered, the brightest thing in the room.

Marius, sitting at his ease in one of the great leather chairs, studied my lord’s face, and wondered at it for its attraction and charm. He had never thought about his brother’s looks, though a certain magnificence of bearing about the Earl had always held him in awe; but to-night, as he gazed up at the proud expressive countenance of Rose, he was almost startled by the extreme handsomeness of the blunt-featured, composed, slightly defiant face with the nostrils a little distended, the lips firmly set, and the large eyes very brilliant under the long lashes.

They call him Beau Lyndwood, thought the young man with a slight sense of distaste. Contemplation of his brother’s splendour gave him an alien feeling. He turned away his eyes and stared across to the dark expanse of the window.

My lord spoke.

“When do you think of going to London?”

“That is as you please, sir.”

“I told Willouby you would be coming to take up your commission soon. You had better write to him.”

“I will, to-night.”

Rose Lyndwood smiled.

“And the lady?” he said sweetly.

Marius coloured.

“She is coming to London in September,” he answered manfully. Of all things he loathed speaking of this to his brother. “She has not written to me, but I hardly expected it.” He pulled himself up short. “This seems sorry foolery to you, sir.”

The Earl’s charming smile deepened.

“What did you call her?”

“Aspasia,” said Marius, staring in front of him.

“Aspasia! It hath melancholy associations! Well, September is not so far. You must commend me to her when you meet.”

Marius rose.

“I will write that letter in the library.” He hesitated, then said awkwardly: “Give my duty to my lady your wife. I hope to meet her tomorrow.”

My lord still smiled in a manner that seemed to put a measureless distance between them, and as Marius turned to leave the room he walked over to the two ladies in the inner chamber.

“A likeness to something—to someone,” the Countess Agatha was saying. “I cannot think where.”

“What gossip do ye broach?” asked the Earl.

Susannah bent over her harp, but his mother answered at once.

“We were speaking of your Lavinia,” she said. “I could swear I had seen her face before.”

“Her type,” replied Rose Lyndwood, “is not uncommon. And now will you sing to me, Susannah?”

Marius had lights brought into the library, and seated himself at the great desk between the bookshelves, where my lady had sat that evening when her son had told her of his ruin.

After arranging his paper and sharpening a quill, Marius leant back in the comfortable chair and fell into a happy musing. The future was good to dwell on. The colour crept into his cheeks, and the fire into his eyes, and his boyishly handsome face softened into a dreamy expression.

The candles burning either side the desk showed a pleasant picture of him, elegant, young, wide-browed and fair, with fresh, untaught lips, one hand slackly holding the quill, the other hanging by his side, grey silk and soft lace adorning his slim figure, and his bright hair brushing the dark background of the carved seat.

Suddenly the door opened and shut.

Marius dropped the quill with a start.

“Is that you, my lord? I have not even begun the letter.”

He looked over his shoulder and remained in that attitude, clasping the arm of the chair.

The Countess Lavinia stood inside the door. Her close purple gown was undone at the throat. Her complexion a ghastly colour; she wore no ornaments.

“Aspasia!” said Marius.

“Hush!” she answered. “Hush!”

He rose now, still staring at her.

“Aspasia!” he repeated, and blenched as if he beheld a spirit.

She came nearer.

“I am no ghost,” she said, in a voice full of horror; “but your brother’s wife.” She put her hand to her forehead, and pushed back the damp dark hair. “I have been watching for this chance. I crept down; I saw you come in here. His cousin is singing to him.”

Marius shuddered and straightened himself.

“Wait!” he said. “You are Aspasia—and Rose’s wife?”

“It is new to you,” she returned wildly, “but I have thought of nothing else for two months. I knew he was your brother. What did it avail? I wrote to you—to your hotel in Paris.”

She stopped, gazing at him, and twisting her fingers together. He began to understand what she was saying, what her presence here, in his brother’s house, meant, what this was that had happened to them.

“I never had your letter,” he said stupidly. “You pledged yourself to me.”

She answered in a feverish haste.

“I know. Had I refused my father he would have killed me—yes, killed me! He said he would send me to Bedlam.” She dropped into the chair that stood stiffly against the opposite wall. “It seemed, too, that you must know—that you did not care.”

Marius stumbled towards her, stooped and took her bare cold hands in his, as he had once held them, gloved and warm, under the spring trees in the garden of the Luxembourg.

“So you were Miss Lavinia Hilton, and now are Rose’s wife?” he said, in a hollow voice. “I understand.”

She turned up her face to his, and her slim bosom panted desperately under the dark gown.

“My father sent for me very soon after we parted. He was terrible—and now it is done.” A look of hopelessness came over her countenance. She rose to her feet, their hands still clinging together.

“How I have dreaded this meeting! I feared it must be before them all. Oh, Marius! Marius!” She ended in a broken wail and drew her hands away and hid her face.

“You are different,” said Marius in a foolish wonder. She seemed so much older, so much whiter and haggard, too. In a confused way he marvelled at it.

“Different,” she echoed; then she laughed. “I am your brother’s wife!”

Marius stepped back.

“My God!” he said in his throat, and mechanically laid hold of his sword hilt. “My God! What are we going to do?”

The Countess Lavinia cowered against the wall.

“You must go away. I followed you to ask you to leave the house at once—to go away. With you here I cannot bear it: do you hear me?”

The foolish quiescence into which the shock had at first stunned him began to give way to a rising passion that thawed his heart.<............