“I really have no idea. Pray do not let me detain you.”
Andrew hoisted himself out of his chair.
“Oh, I’m not staying, never fear! … I suppose you cannot oblige me with—say—fifty guineas?”
“I should be loth to upset your suppositions,” replied his Grace sweetly.
“You will not? Well, I didn’t think you would somehow! But I wish you might contrive to let me have it, Tracy. I’ve had prodigious ill-luck of late, and the Lord knows ’tis not much I get from you! I don’t want to ask Dick again.”
“I should not let the performance grow monotonous, certainly,” agreed the other. “Fifty, you said?”
“Forty-five would suffice.”
“Oh, you may have it!” shrugged his Grace. “At once?”
“Blister me, but that’s devilish good of you, Tracy! At once would be convenient to me!”
His Grace produced a key from his vest pocket and unlocked a drawer in the desk. From it he took a small box. He counted out fifty guineas, and added another to the pile. Andrew stared at it.
“What’s that for?” he inquired.
“The stockings,” replied Tracy, with a ghost of a smile. Andrew burst out laughing.
“That’s good! Gad! but you’re devilish amusing, ’pon rep. you are!” He thanked his Grace profusely and gathering up the money, left the room.
Outside he gave vent to a low whistle of astonishment. “Tare an’ ouns! he must be monstrous well-pleased over something!” he marvelled. “I shall awaken soon, I doubt not.” He chuckled a little as he descended the staircase, but his face was full of wonderment.
Lovelace called nearly every day at Wyncham House, but was always refused admittance, as Lady Lavinia deemed it prudent not to see him. There came a day, however, when he would not be gainsaid, and was ushered into her drawing-room. He kissed her hands lingeringly, holding them for a long while in his.
“Lavinia! Cruel fair one!”
She drew her hands away, not too well pleased at his intrusion.
“How silly, Harold! I cannot have you tease me every day!”
She allowed him to sit by her on the window seat, and he again possessed himself of her hands. Did she love him? She hoped he was not going to be foolish. Of course not. He did not believe her, and started to plead his suit, imploring her to come away with him. In vain Lady Lavinia begged him to be quiet; she had stirred up a blaze, and it threatened to consume her. He was so insistent that, expecting Richard at any moment, and terrified lest there should be a disturbance, she promised to give him an answer next evening, at the theatre. She managed to be rid of him in this way, and, with a relieved sigh, watched him walk down the square. She was very fond of dear Harry, but really, he was dreadfully tiresome at times.
She brought her tiny mirror out from her pocket and surveyed her reflection critically, giving a tweak to one curl, and smoothing another back. She was afraid she was looking rather old this evening, and hoped that Richard would not think so. She glanced up at the clock, wondering where he was; surely he should be in by now? Then she arranged a chair invitingly, pushed a stool up to it and sat down opposite. With a sigh, she reflected that it was an entirely new departure for her to strive to please and captivate her husband, and she fell a-thinking of how he must have waited on her in the old days, waiting as she was waiting now—hoping for her arrival. Lady Lavinia was beginning to realise that perhaps Dick’s life had not been all roses with her as wife.
The door opened and Richard came into the room. Deep lines were between his brows, but his mouth was for once set firmly. He looked sombrely down at her, thinking how very beautiful she was.
Lady Lavinia smiled and nodded towards the chair she had prepared.
“Sit down, Dicky! I am so glad you have come! I was monstrous dull and lonely, I assure you!”
“Were you?” he said, fidgeting with her scissors. “No, I will not sit down. I have something to say to you, Lavinia. Something to tell you.”
“Oh, have you?” she asked. “Something nice, Dicky?”
“I fear you will hardly think so. I am about to make an end.”
“Oh—oh, are you? Of what?”
“Of this—this deceitful life I am leading—have been leading. I—I—I am going to confess the whole truth.”
“Rich‑ard!”
He let fall the scissors and paced restlessly away down the room.
“I—I tell you, Lavinia, I cannot endure it! I cannot! I cannot! The thought of what John may be bearing is driving me crazy! I must speak!”
“You—you can’t!” she gasped. “After seven years! Dicky, for heaven’s sake—!” The colour ebbed and flowed in her cheeks.
“I cannot continue any longer this living of a lie—I have been feeling it more and more ever since—ever since I met—Jack—that time on the road. And now I can no longer stand it. Everywhere I go I seem to see him—looking at me—you don’t understand—”
Lavinia cast aside her work.
“No! No! I do not! ’Pon rep., but you should have thought of this before, Dick!”
“I know it. Nothing can excuse my cowardice—my weakness. I know all that, but it is not too late even now to make amends. In a week they will all know the truth.”
“What—what do you mean?”
“I have requested all whom it concerns to come to Wyncham the Friday after this.”
“Good heavens! Dick, Dick, think!”
“I have thought. God! how I have thought!”
“It is not fair to me! Oh, think of your honour—Wyncham!”
“My honour is less than nothing. ’Tis of his that I think.”
She sprang up, clutching at his arm, shaking him.
“Richard, you are mad! You must not do this! You must not, I say!”
“I implore you, Lavinia, not to try to make me change my decision. It is of no use. Nothing you can say will make any difference.”
She flew into a passion, flinging away from him, her good resolutions forgotten.
“You have no right
