Patricia blushed. “There is not much to explain,” she rejoined. “Lionel and I happened to come across the procession of the Unemployed—perhaps you have seen it yourself? Yes? Then you know how it makes one’s blood run cold to see the misery on their faces. I had only a little money to put in the collecting-box, so I gave my brooch. If they can sell it, it will do them more good than myself.” “Preposterous!” the Countess exclaimed. “Why, it was worth at least two hundred pounds.” “So much the better; even if they get only a hundred, it will go towards buying bread. And I shall not even miss it—I have so many trinkets.” Her cousin shrugged her shoulders. “Well, I won’t say any more,” she said. “You always were one of the most absurdly quixotic creatures of my acquaintance. I should not be at all surprised if you ended by beggaring yourself.” “In that case, I shall appeal to you for assistance,” Patricia answered, with a smile. “But do not let us talk about myself. Tell me your great secret, Mamie.” “Presently. There is plenty of time.” Patricia glanced at her with curiosity. “You are making a great mystery of it,” she remarked. “Whom does it concern?” Lady Chesterwood’s fingers pressed the keys once more. There was a peculiar expression on her face, and a new gleam seemed to come into her eyes. She was a pretty woman, and possessed the indefinable charm which generally associates itself with young widows. She turned round slowly on the music-stool, and faced Patricia with a glance which almost betrayed a touch of defiance. “The secret concerns myself and a man,” she replied slowly. “A great man.” CHAPTER VIII LADY CHESTERWOOD’S SECRET Patricia’s interest deepened. “A great man?” she repeated. “In what way is he great?” The Countess rose with an air of mystery, and closed the door, which had been left ajar. Then she established herself comfortably in one of the beautifully carved chairs, and assumed a look of importance. “First of all, dear,” she said impressively, “you must promise absolute secrecy. I must have your word of honour that you won’t tell a living soul, not even Lionel Montella.” “I will readily promise not to tell any of my friends,” Patricia answered, “but I have no secrets from Lionel. Is this necessary?” “Absolutely. I would not have Montella know for worlds. Perhaps I am foolish in telling you, Pat, but I know I can trust you if you promise.” The girl hesitated. She was not sure that she cared to be told anything which must be expressly kept back from her lover; but after a few moments’ consideration she yielded. After all, it might not be of much importance—a love-affair probably, for the Countess was still quite young. “Very well, I promise,” she said. “On your word of honour?” “On my word of honour.” Lady Chesterwood’s expression was inscrutable.