She can remember that disdainful face, kind and tender and loving! A face she had once delighted to dwell upon! And Isabel had been very good to her once--when others had not been kind, and when Swansdown, her natural protector, had been scandalously untrue to his trust. Isabel had loved her then; and now, how was she about to requite her? Was she to let her know her to be false--not only in thought but in reality! Could she live and see that pale face in imagination filled with scorn for the desecrated friendship that once had been a real bond between them? Oh! A groan that is almost a sob breaks from her. The scale has gone down to one side. It is all over, hope and love and joy. Isabel has won. She has been leaning against the arm of the lounge, now she once more sinks back upon the seat as though standing is impossible to her. "Well?" says Baltimore, laying his hand gently upon hers. His touch seems to burn her, she flings his hand from her and shrinks back. "You have decided," says he quickly. "You will not come with me?" "Oh! no, no, no!" cries she. "It is impossible!" A little curious laugh breaks from her that is cruelly akin to a cry. "There is too much to remember," says she, suddenly. "You think you would be wronging her," says Baltimore, reading her correctly. "I have told you you are at fault there. She would bless the chance that swept me out of her life. And as for me, I should have no regrets. You need not fear that." "Ah, that is what I do fear," says she in a low tone. "Well, you have decided," says he, after a pause. "After all why should I feel either disappointment or surprise? What is there about me that should tempt any woman to cast in her lot with mine?" "Much!" says Lady Swansdown, deliberately. "But the one great essential is wanting--you have no love to give. It is all given." She leans toward him and regards him earnestly. "Do you really think you are in love with me? Shall I tell you who you are in love with?" She lets her soft cheek fall into her hand and looks up at him from under her long lashes. "You can tell me what you will," says he, a little impatiently. "Listen, then," says she, with a rather broken attempt at gayety, "you are in love with that good, charming, irritating, impossible, but most lovable person in the world--your own wife!" "Pshaw!" says Baltimore, with an irritated gesture. "We will not discuss her, if you please." "As you will. To discuss her or leave her name out of it altogether will not, however, alter matters." "You have quite made up your mind," says he, presently, looking at her searchingly. "You will let me go alone into evil?" "You will not go," returns she, trying to speak with conviction, but looking very anxious. "I certainly shall. There is nothing else left for me to do. Life here is intolerable." "There is one thing," says she, her voice trembling. "You might make it up with her."