Honoria Pryse lay in bed and listened to the rain. All night long it had poured steadily, and now, when the June day had dawned, there was no sign of its cessation. Honoria was always pleased to hear that comfortless beat of the rain when she lay warm and dry herself, just as it pleased her to think over what had happened yesterday and what would in all likelihood happen today. She herself had acted prudently to her own advantage, and yet in a way that no one could blame; even the proud Miss Chressham had been glad of her help, and the Earl owed, if he had not given, her thanks.

Marius Lyndwood had reason to be grateful to her, and if my lady loathed her for her interference it was not a matter to trouble about. The Countess was too dependent on her maid for Honoria to fear her wrath.

It was curious that the Countess had returned so quietly. Honoria could recall neither protest nor complaint, and the burst of passionate invective that she had been waiting to receive the moment they were relieved from the restraint of my lord’s cold presence had never come.

Honoria was surprised, puzzled also by the curiosity my lady suddenly showed in the matter of the Earl’s duel with Sir Francis. It was not to be marvelled at that she was interested in the fact itself, one that might mean a great deal to her, but her questions as to time, place, and weapons seemed to Honoria unusual and purposeless.

Sitting up in bed and shaking the yellow curls out of her eyes, she smiled to herself at all of it—at my lady, lying in a sick sleep in the next room; at Miss Chressham, awake certainly and praying for my lord; at the Earl and Sir Francis, meeting under the trees in Hyde Park—and for the sake of a few lines in the paper composed by her in this very room; at Miss Boyle, in a fainting agony, praying also for my lord. Honoria laughed aloud, yawned, and got out of bed.

As she dressed she wondered, with a sense of amusement, and perhaps a little anxiety, what would happen next. If they brought my lord home, shot through the heart; if Mr. Hilton failed; if they were sold up in a downfall that would be the talk of London—what would become of my lady and herself? Her mouth and eyes hardened as she stared at herself in the mirror. Well, suppose my lord shot Sir Francis?

She shrugged her shoulders, opened the shutters and looked out over London. The grey clouds were beginning to break, a light that was between gold and silver glimmered over the wet roofs. The rain was ceasing.

It was about eight; the duel must be over now. The Countess would surely be awake. Honoria was surprised that she had not been roused by her in the night—that she should still be sleeping on such a morning as this. After all, my lord’s life or death meant something to her.

Honoria adjusted her muslin mob, her pink ribbons, her buckle shoes—she was always neat, though she served a slovenly mistress—and opened the door that led into the Countess’s bedchamber.

As she stepped into the close dun light of the shrouded room she came to a stop with a great start. The heavy-curtained bed was empty. The clothes were flung back and the spaniel slept on the coverlet; an open novel lay on the pillow; garments, dead flowers, masks, fans, boxes, books and prints lay scattered over the chairs and floor. The Countess was not in the chamber.

“My lady,” cried Honoria softly, “my lady!”

She crossed the room quickly and entered the apartment beyond it, her mistress’s private withdrawing-room. The blue brocaded satin curtains were drawn close and the white rose-wreathed walls showed cold and luminous in the confined light.

“My lady!” cried Honoria again.

At a little Chinese cabinet in the corner, set open and covered with a confusion of papers and rich articles of gold and jewels, sat the Countess, resting her head in her hands. She wore again the muslin dress, red mantle, and straw hat of last night. Her clothes were wet, clinging to her, and stained with mud. Her hair hung uncurled and unpowdered on to her shoulders; her face was drawn and of an unhealthy pallid colour. At her elbow stood a lit candle, and on the carpet by the chair was a little pile of burnt paper.

She did not move at her maid’s entry, and Honoria spoke again.

“Have you been out, my lady?”

The Countess Lavinia turned her head.

“Did you think I was asleep?” she asked in a weary voice.

Honoria crossed to her side.

“You are wet to the skin. Do you wish to kill yourself?”

“I do not feel it,” answered the Countess, but she was shivering. “I have been to the Park, Honoria.” She put the candle out and leant back in her chair.

“To the duel?”

“Yes.” Her voice had a vague far-off sound. “I crept downstairs last night after you had left me, and unloaded his pistols, thinking he would have to fight without a second.”

“You did that!” quivered Honoria.

The Countess turned wide glazed eyes on her. She did not seem to know to whom she spoke.

“And then I followed to see him shot.” She coughed, laughed, and sat up.

“My God!” said Honoria, staring at her mistress.

The Countess thrust her fingers through her damp hair.

“Marius was there, that is why I am speaking of it. You can tell them afterwards.”

“I do not understand,” cried the maid. “Are you sane, my lady?”

“I want to say this,” smiled the Countess, holding her head. “It becomes so difficult to say anything. Sir Francis fired into the air. Why are men such fools? I went to see him shot!”

“You accuse yourself of murder,” said Honoria.

“When my lord’s pistol clicked uselessly,” continued my lady, “they thought it was Marius’s doing—at least, my lord did. No one saw me. I was standing at the top of a little rise among the bushes. How it had rained! Now was my revenge, I thought. But useless, useless! And they must know.”

“Ye are mad!” muttered Honoria.

The Countess caught up some of the letters lying before her and began to tear them across; but her fingers failed her, the pieces dropped from her grasp and her hands sank into her lap.

“There is no need for me to speak any more,” she said, and her head fell against the satin and gilt chair-back.

“You are ill!” cried Honoria. “Get up, my lady, and take off these wet clothes.”

The Countess made no movement, and her maid, who could not see well in this dim light, sprang to the window and pulled back the blinds. The rain of the night was over, the drops gleamed beautifully on the panes and a pale bar of sunlight fell across the chamber and struck the upturned face of the Countess Lavinia.

“What is the matter?” exclaimed Honoria. “Come to bed, my lady.”

“I walked home,” said the Countess. “How strange the city is at night! I beheld the dawn break behind St. James’s Church.”

“No one saw you?” asked the maid.

My lady shook her head.

“But you must tell them I was there.”

“Ye talk madly! Why should I speak? It hath ended well; my lord lives.”

“Marius hath the blame,” said the Countess in an exhausted voice. “Honoria, I could have loved him.”

“What matter for that? He can go abroad. Ye are safe. Come to bed.” She caught her mistress by the arm and strove to raise her from the chair. “Will you not come to bed? What if any find you in this trim?”

The Countess raised herself languidly.

“I should put these papers to rights,” she said feebly.

Honoria noticed with a little pang of horror that the letters scattered about were old, childish epistles dating from my lady’s girlhood at the boarding-school, and long put away.

“What are you doing with these?” she asked.

“I do not know.” The Countess dropped the keys of the desk from her limp hand and caught Honoria’s shoulder. “Help me to bed. I am very cold.”

“You risked your life in this wet!” cried the maid, terrified at her face. “You are certainly ill. Shall I fetch the doctor?”

“No—no doctor,” answered the Countess. “I am very well.”

Honoria helped her to the bedchamber and undressed her, huddling away the wet clothes with their treacherous stains of mud. The Countess flung a blue wrap over her tumbled petticoats and sank into a chair at the foot of her bed.

“Will you have your chocolate?” asked Honoria, kneeling before her and taking off her damp shoes.

The Countess nodded.

“It is early yet,” continued the maid. “Will you not get to bed?”

The Countess Lavinia raised herself in her chair and looked round the room—rich, yet dishevelled and dreary with its confusion of articles of frivolity and vanity.

“No,” she said vacantly. “Go make the chocolate.”

Honoria gave her a pair of glittering slippers and went lightly into the next chamber, where, on an elegant table of kingswood, stood the silver chocolate service. Before preparing this she crept to............