And what were Ilfracombe’s feelings as he strolled back to Usk Hall? Not entirely pleasurable ones, we may be sure. He could not but be thankful that his worst fears for Nell Llewellyn were allayed, that his conscience was no longer burdened with the thought that his desertion had been the means of her death--but as he became used to this relief, the old sensations regarding her returned, and he could not help acknowledging to himself that her love wearied him--that Nora’s sharpness of temper and standoffishness were as _sauce piquante_ after Nell’s adoration--and that, though he rejoiced to see her alive, he was very sorry they should have met in such close proximity to the house which held his wife. He had had one or two doubts lately as to whether another week of Usk Hall would not suit him very well--now he had none. The sooner they were out of it, the better, and he should speak to Nora to-night about joining his mother’s party at Wiesbaden. She and Nell must not meet again. He should not reveal the identity of the latter to Lady Ilfracombe, but all intercourse must be stopped between them. He was sorry for poor Nell--very, very sorry; but, hang it all, Nora was his wife, and the prospective mother of his children, and at all hazards he would keep her for the future out of the other woman’s way. This is the difference men make between their mistresses and their wives. The one may be the infinitely better woman of the two, but the law does not overshadow her, so she must stand like Hagar apart in the wilderness which she has created for herself. CHAPTER III. When Lord Ilfracombe walked into the lighted drawing-room of Usk Hall he looked so pale and thoughtful that the ladies began to rally him at once on his supposed melancholy. Dear me, what could it be? Who could he have met during his evening ramble to make him look so grave? Had she failed to keep her appointment, or had she been unkind? The whole list of little pleasantries with which the fair sex assail men on such occasions, with the idea of being arch and witty, was recounted for his lordship’s benefit; but he looked very disinclined to supply food for their banter. His worry was so pre-evident that his wife asked him if he had a headache. ‘A little; nothing to speak of,’ he answered quietly. ‘Come along, old man, and have a game at pool,’ said Jack Portland, in his turn; ‘that will soon chase the vapours away. I expect it’s Sir Archibald’s port that’s done the job. It’s the most alluring wine I’ve tasted for many a day.’ ‘No, no. I won’t allow it. Nothing of the kind,’ cried the jolly baronet; ‘there isn’t a headache in a dozen of it. Lord Ilfracombe hasn’t had enough of it. That’s what’s the matter with him.’ ‘I think the sun may have touched me,’ said Ilfracombe feebly; ‘it has been very hot to-day.’