Lord Rotherby, from that interview with his mother, Hortensia crossing the hall below. Forgetting his dignity, he quickened his movements, and took the remainder of the stairs two at a stride. But, then, his lordship was excited and angry, and considerations of dignity did not obtain with him at the time. For that matter, they seldom did.  
“Hortensia! Hortensia!” he called to her, and at his call she paused.
 
Not once during the month that was past—and during which he had, for the most part, kept his room, to all intents a prisoner—had she exchanged so much as a word with him. Thus, not seeing him, she had been able, to an extent, to exclude him from her thoughts, which, naturally enough, were reluctant to entertain him for their guest.
 
Her calm, as she paused now in to his bidding, was such that it almost surprised herself. She had loved him once—or thought so, a little month ago—and at a single blow he had that love. Now love so slain has a trick of resurrecting in the of hate; and so, she had thought at first had been the case with her. But this moment proved to her now that her love was dead, indeed, since of her erstwhile affection not even a to hate remained. Dislike she may have felt; but it was that cold dislike that breeds a deadly , and seeks no active expression, asking no more than the avoidance of its object.
 
Her calm, reflected in her face of a beauty almost spiritual, in every steady line of her slight, figure, gave him pause a moment, and his hot glance fell before the chill indifference that met him from those brown eyes.
 
A man of deeper sensibilities, of keener perceptions, would have bowed and gone his way. But then a man of deeper sensibilities would never have sought this interview that the viscount was now seeking. Therefore, it was but natural that he should recover swiftly from his halt, and step aside to throw open the door of a little room on the right of the hall. Bowing slightly, he invited her to enter.
 
“Grant me a moment ere I go, Hortensia,” he said, between command and .
 
She stood him an instant, with no outward sign of what might be passing in her mind; then she slightly inclined her head, and went forward as he bade her.
 
It was a sunny room, gay with light color and dainty furnishings, having long window-doors that opened to the garden. An Aubusson carpet of palest green, with a festoon pattern of pink roses, covered two-thirds of the blocked, polished floor. The empanelled walls were white, with here a mirror, flanked on either side by a girandole in ormolu. A stood open in mid-chamber, and upon it were sheets of music, a few books and a bowl of emerald-green , charged now with roses, whose lay heavy on the air. There were two or three small tables of very dainty, fragile make, and the chairs were in delicately-tinted the of La Fontaine.
 
It was an apartment looked upon by Hortensia as her own withdrawing-room, set apart for her own use, and as that the household—her very ladyship included—had ever recognized it.
 
His lordship closed the door with care. Hortensia took her seat upon the long stool that stood at the spinet, her back to the instrument, and with hands idle in her lap—the same cold reserve upon her -she awaited his communication.
 
He advanced until he was close beside her, and stood leaning an elbow on the corner of the spinet, a long and not ungraceful figure, with the black curls of his full-bottomed falling about his swarthy, big-featured face.
 
“I have but my farewells to make, Hortensia,” said he. “I am leaving Stretton House, to-day, at last.”
 
“I am glad,” said she, in a formal, level voice, “that things should have fallen out so as to leave you free to go your ways.”
 
“You are glad,” he answered, frowning slightly, and leaning farther towards her. “Ay, and why are you glad? Why? You are glad for Mr. Caryll's sake. Do you deny it?”
 
She looked up at him quite calm and fearlessly. “I am glad for your own sake, too.”
 
His dark brooding eyes looked deep into hers, which did not under his gaze. “Am I to believe you?” he inquired.
 
“Why not? I do not wish your death.”
 
“Not my death—but my absence?” he . “You wish for that, do you not? You would prefer me gone? My room is better than my company just now? 'Tis what you think, eh?”
 
“I have not thought of it at all,” she answered him with a pitiless frankness.
 
He laughed, soft and wickedly. “Is it so very hopeless, then? You have not thought of it at all by which you mean that you have not thought of me at all.”
 
“Is't not best so? You have given me no cause to think of you to your advantage. I am therefore kind to exclude you from my thoughts.”
 
“Kind?” he mocked her. “You think it kind to put me from your mind—I who love you, Hortensia!”
 
She rose upon the instant, her cheeks warming faintly. “My lord,” said she, “I think there is no more to be said between us.”
 
“Ah, but there is,” he cried. “A deal more yet.” And he left his place by the spinet to come and stand immediately before her, barring her passage to the door. “Not only to say farewell was it that I desired to speak with you alone here.” His voice amazingly. “I want your pardon ere I go. I want you to say that you forgive me the thing I would have done, Hortensia.” quivered in his lowered voice. He a knee to her, and held out his hand. “I will not rise until you speak my pardon, child.”
 
“Why, if that be all, I pardon you very readily,” she answered, still betraying no emotion.
 
He frowned. “Too readily!” he cried. “Too readily for . I will not take it so.”
 
“Indeed, my lord, for a , you are very difficult to please. I pardon you with all my heart.”
 
“You are sincere?” he cried, and sought to take her hands; but she whipped them away and behind her. “You bear me no ill-will?”
 
She considered him now with a calm, critical gaze, before which he was forced to lower his bold eyes. “Why should I bear you an ill-will?” she asked him.
 
“For the thing I did—the thing I sought to do.”
 
“I wonder do you know all that you did?” she asked him, . “Shall I tell you, my lord? You cured me of a . I had been blind, and you made me see. I had foolishly thought to escape one evil, and you made me realize that I was rushing into a worse. You saved me from myself. You may have made me suffer then; but it was a healing hurt you dealt me. And should I bear you an ill-will for that?”
 
He had risen from his knee. He stood apart, pondering her from under bent brows with eyes that were full of angry fire.
 
“I do not think,” she ended, “that there needs more between us. I have understood you, sir, since that day at Maidstone—I think we were strangers until then; and perhaps now you may begin to understand me. Fare you well, my lord.”
 
She made shift to go, but he barred her passage now in earnest, his hands beside him in witness of the violence he did himself to keep them there. “Not yet,” he said, in a deep, concentrated voice. “Not yet. I did you a wrong, I know. And what you say—cruel as it is—is no more than I deserve. But I desire to make . I love you, Hortensia, and desire to make amends.”
 
She smiled wistfully. “'Tis overlate to talk of that.”
 
“Why?” he demanded fiercely, and caught her arms, holding her there before him. “Why is it overlate?”
 
“Suffer me to go,” she commanded, rather than begged, and made to free herself of his grasp.
 
“I want you to be my wife, Hortensia—my wife.”
 
She looked at him, and laughed; a cold laugh, disdainful, yet not bitter. “You wanted that before, my lord; yet you neglected the opportunity my folly gave you. I thank you—you, after God—for that same neglect.”
 
“Ah, do not say that!” he begged, a very again. “Do not say that! Child, I love you. Do you understand?”
 
“Who could fail to understand, after the abundant proof you have afforded me of your sincerity and your devotion?”
 
“Do you rally me?” he demanded, letting through a flash of the anger that was mounting in him. “Am I so poor a thing that you your little wit upon me?”
 
“My lord, you are paining me. What can............