“My Chris was in such a rage that he was fit to slay me there and then. He turned on his heel and slammed out of the room. I went away.
“And there the matter really ended. I was hoping for an amusing duel, but evidently Fortescue was talked to very seriously. At all events he visited me next day, all the pot-valiance knocked out of him. Odso, but he was ashamed! He had come to offer me his apologies! He had not known what he was saying; he begged I would excuse him. Then he grew very red, and told me that he could not have me as a second in the circumstances. So I sent for Chris. Fortescue was all for fighting, but I made them shake hands. That is all. My name is now safe.” He smiled a little.
“No wonder it is the talk of town!” cried Charles. “Oddsblood, I would I had been there!” Then he became grave. After a moment he said: “Roxhythe, this Dutch war is becoming vastly distasteful to my people.”
Roxhythe was amused.
“Now what ails you?” demanded Charles. “Is it a laughing matter?”
“Certainly not. I laughed at the sudden change of topic. And have you but just discovered that the people do not like it?”
“No. They grow hot. What is more to the point is that the Commons also grow hot. I think I must have a respite.”
“How?”
“I have had enough of Parliament,” said Charles, looking at him. “For the present.”
“Prorogation!” smiled Roxhythe. “I admire your consummate daring, Sir.”
II
The Husband
Lady Crewe was disconsolate. Out of the corner of her eye she watched my Lord Roxhythe paying his respects to Mlle. Charlotte d’Almond. Charlotte was of the Duchess of Portsmouth’s household, something of a virago, but undoubtedly fascinating. Lady Crewe hated her cordially. Lady Crewe sat alone, playing with her fan. Presently Mr. Dart appeared. His hostess, Fanny Montgomery, greeted him with affection. She told him to make himself useful. So he went across the room to Millicent’s side and swept her a bow.
“All alone, Lady Crewe?”
She forced a smile.
“No, Mr. Dart; you are here.”
Christopher was fond of Millicent. He sat down beside her.
“Shall we stay on this very pleasing couch, or shall we dance?” he asked.
“I—I don’t think I will dance, thank you,” she answered. She was young, and she did not conceal her emotions well.
Christopher glanced round the room.
“All the world is here tonight,” he remarked. “What a gathering! I don’t see Sir Henry?”
“He is here,” she said listlessly. “Gaming belike.”
A year ago Sir Henry Crewe was never from his wife’s side. Christopher regarded Roxhythe across the room with tightened lips. He attempted another remark.
“It is quite an age since we last saw each other, Lady Crewe. I looked for you at the Coventry rout last week but someone said you were in the country. Was that so?”
“No,” she answered. “I was not well. I do not think town air agrees with me. I tire so easily.”
Time was, reflected Christopher, when this had not been so. Her ladyship’s cheeks had been rosy then, and less thin.
“Why, I am sorry!” he said. “You must make your husband take you to the country for a while, though I vow we should miss you sadly.”
Lady Crewe was not attending. A lazy, cynical voice reached Christopher’s ears. He turned sharply. Lord Roxhythe stood beside them.
“My very dear Millicent! I had not seen you till this moment. Pray where have you been?” He kissed her hand. Christopher observed how the colour flooded her face.
“You have been otherwise engaged, my lord,” she replied. “I have been here some while.”
Christopher saw that he was not wanted. He faded away. Roxhythe took his seat.
“Child,” he said, “where are all your roses?”
“Am I so pale?” she smiled. “Perhaps I have lost my rouge.”
“Evidently,” he said. “And what ails you?”
Her eyes were troubled.
“My lord … my lord. …”
“But why so aloof?”
The coaxing tone brought the tears to her lashes.
“David—I am very unhappy.”
He rose.
“My dear, we must examine this more closely. I know a room where we shall not be disturbed.”
“Oh, no!” she cried. “Indeed, I must not!”
“Must not?”
“You—you know it is not seemly for me to be seen so much—with you. My—my husband—”
“Fiend seize your husband. Come!”
“I ought not—I ought not—” Even as she said it she rose and laid her hand on his arm. Together they went out.
Roxhythe led her into a small, dimly lighted parlour. He shut the door, and took her in his arms.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
For a moment she tried to free herself; then her hands clung to his broad shoulders.
“David, it is wrong! I—I am not this kind of woman! God help me, I wish I had never met you!” The cry was broken.
Roxhythe bent his head till his lips met hers. It was Mrs. Diana Shelton who had called Roxhythe’s kiss “divine intoxication.”
“Confess! ’Tis a lie?”
“No, no! Indeed, I wish it!”
He kissed her again.
“You do not love me?”
“Oh, yes!—No! oh, what am I saying?” She broke away from him to a chair. “Before I—met you—before you—made love to me—I thought I cared so much for Henry. Now—now we hardly speak. You fill all my thoughts, and he looks at me—as though he hated me. I’m no court beauty. I cannot—play at love as they do. ’Tis—not in my nature.”
My lord knelt at her side, holding both her hands.
“Do you then care so much for Henry? Am I nothing?”
“Have I not told you? Oh, my heart is nigh breaking! You do not really love me; you only—pretend—and it means so much to me. I’m a fool; a silly, hysterical miss! I—” She tried to laugh, but her voice broke, and she buried her face on his shoulder, sobbing.
Roxhythe stared over her head at the wall. His expression was rather curious. Suddenly he bent over the bowed figure,
