“My child, you distress yourself unduly. How old are you?”
“T-twenty-one. Why—why do you ask?”
My lord smiled whimsically.
“Twenty-one. And I am—forty-two.”
She lifted her head.
“What of it?”
“I seem to be rather too old for you, dear.”
“David—my lord—I do not—understand.”
“No? I think our little comedy has played itself out.”
Slowly she drew herself away from him.
“You—call it comedy. I—have another name for it. Mayhap ’twas indeed a—comedy to you. To me—to me—” she stopped, twisting her fingers.
“Oh, no!” said my lord, calmly. “You delude yourself, my dear. It was a pretty farce, and perhaps you were a little dazzled. But that is all.”
“You—make me—hate you.”
“Why, that is as it should be.”
“You—you made love to me; you—dazzled—me, and now you are tired of the—farce—you cast me off.”
“Not a whit. I am not tired of it. I think you are.”
She shook her head. Slow tears were creeping down her cheeks.
“I love you. I cannot let you go.”
“Well, my dear, I do not see how you are to keep the both of us on a tether if you take the matter so seriously.”
“I do not want both.”
“Then choose your husband, my child.”
“I can’t, I can’t! I want you!” It was the cry of a child. Roxhythe bit his lip.
“It will pass.”
She raised her head.
“Are you saying—these things—for my sake, or is it—because of—Charlotte d’Almond?”
“Oh lud!” said my lord. He rose to his feet. “Preserve me!”
She also rose.
“It is not? You love me, as you’ve so often vowed?”
Roxhythe looked at her serenely.
“My dear, I do not think I love anyone.”
Tragedy was in her blue eyes, and uncomprehending hurt.
“You thought me—just a—cheap woman!”
“No.”
“Then—then—Oh heavens, how dare you humiliate me so? And I—and I—please take me back to the ballroom!”
She stepped forward into the full light of the candles, erect, outraged. Roxhythe eyed her critically.
“Child, you must dry the tears.”
In spite of her forced calm something sparkled on the end of her long lashes.
“Oh, tut, tut, Millicent! You will forget all this madness. Come, let me wipe away the tears.”
Millicent pushed him from her with hands that trembled.
“No! Please—don’t try to—be kind to me! I cannot bear it. I have been in heaven and hell this past year, and now—and now—” She choked back a sob. “You were—very cruel, my lord. You made me play at love with you, and then—when I am no longer playing—you turn away, and—call it—a pretty comedy. And you talk to me—as if you were—my father!”
“Which I almost might be,” remarked his lordship. “My dear, you are too young for the game. I ought to have known it. I am sorry. Now won’t you let me dry your tears?”
His voice was very gentle; all his fascination was to the fore. It swept over Millicent and would not be gainsaid. Pride was as nothing before it; at that moment she felt that only one thing mattered, and that was that he should not leave her. She allowed him to draw her closer, and to wipe her eyes with his scented handkerchief. A small pulse in her throat was throbbing madly; he was so inexpressibly dear, so strong, so wonderful. The tears welled up afresh; she heard him speak through a haze of misery.
“Dear child, I am not worth it. I am only an interlude.”
“That is all—to you. Oh, you are utterly, utterly ruthless! I amused you for the time, so—you have—broken my heart—for your pleasure, and brought me—as low as this! I was so happy before you came! So happy.”
“You will be happy again,” said Roxhythe philosophically. “Hearts are easily mended. Tell that husband of yours to take you away for a time.”
“My husband! We scarcely speak! He despises me! He thinks me—what I am—a cheap, faithless woman!”
“It seems your husband is a fool. There! The tears are gone?”
“Take me back to the ballroom, please. I—I have been mad. What will—Henry think—if he finds me gone? Oh, please take me back.”
Roxhythe smiled faintly.
“Yes. I did not think the passion was real. Console yourself, my dear. ’Tis Henry you love.” He held out his arm.
The door opened.
“Just as I thought!” The words came furiously, hissed across the room. With his back to the door, hands clenched at his sides, stood Sir Henry Crewe.
Millicent sprang away from Roxhythe’s side, her cheeks flaming. Roxhythe himself regarded the intruder pensively.
“Blue and rose-pink. …” he murmured. “Marvellous!”
Crewe walked forward, his dark velvet cloak hushing against the table as he brushed past.
“I have not sought you out to talk of my clothes, Lord Roxhythe!” he said. He did not glance in his wife’s direction.
“No?” answered Roxhythe. He met the angry young eyes amusedly. “What then?”
Crewe controlled his voice with difficulty. He was very pale, but his eyes burnt.
“I have come to tell you that my friends will wait on yours, Lord Roxhythe!”
“Thank you very much,” said Roxhythe. “But may I point out to you that this is a somewhat inopportune moment?”
“I think not! I could scarce have chosen a more fitting time!” He laughed bitterly. “I trust I make myself clear?”
“Not at all,” said Roxhythe. “I am at a loss.”
“You are singularly dense if you do not understand me! Things have come to a pretty pass that you so brazenly take my wife apart! Is that explanation enough?”
Roxhythe stared at him in great hauteur. Then he turned to Millicent and bowed.
“Permit me to conduct you back to the ballroom, my dear.”
Crewe flung himself between them.
“Lady Crewe can stay to hear what I have to say! She will not again require your escort!”
My lord’s voice became a shade more languid.
“My good youth, you rave. You have my permission to stand back.”
Few had ever dared to withstand that note. Sir Henry stood firm.
“ ’Tis you who shall stand back, sir! You shall not touch my wife!”
Millicent clasped and unclasped her hands. She was very near to breaking point.
“You make a very fine melodramatic hero,” said Roxhythe. “But you forget with whom you have to deal.”
“You might be the devil himself and I’d not let you pass!”
“Child’s talk,” said my lord. His
