Naturally the scandal mongers began to open--first their eyes, and then their mouths again. Every morning brought some fresh story, generally founded, at least, in fact, with Lady Clydesdale for its heroine. They made wild work with her name before long, but so far no one could attach to it the shame of any one definite _liaison_. A circle of courtiers followed her wherever she went, but no one of these--jealously as they watched for the faintest indication of a decided preference--could have told who stood first in the favour of their wilful, capricious sovereign. Sometimes one would flatter himself, for a moment, that he really had gained ground, and made an abiding impression; but, before he could realize his happiness, the weary, absent look would return to the beautiful eyes, and the unhappy adorer had only to fall back to the dead level of his fellows, in wrath and discomfiture. No one the least interested in Helen could see how things were going without serious alarm. Lady Mildred, Max Vavasour, and Maud Brabazon, each in their turn, attempted remonstrance. The Countess met her mother's warning apathetically, her brother's contemptuously, her friend's affectionately--with perfect impartiality disregarding them all. It is more than doubtful if Clydesdale could have done any good by interfering. He certainly did not try the experiment. From first to last he never stretched out a finger to arrest his fair wife on her road to Avernus. He allowed her to go where she would--very often alone--only, indeed, escorting her when it suited his own plans or purposes. Whether he was base enough to be actually careless about her temptations, or whether he resolutely shut his eyes to the possibility of her coming to harm, it would be hard to say. Nevertheless, from time to time, Helen had to endure furious outbreaks of his temper; and with each of these, that strange thrill of physical fear grew stronger and stronger. But jealousy had nothing whatever to do with rousing the storms, which usually burst forth on some absurdly frivolous provocation. The fact was, when the Earl was sulky or wroth, he chose to vent his brutal humour on the victim nearest to his hand that was likely to feel the blows most acutely. He saw that such scenes _hurt_ his wife in some way, though he did not guess at her real feelings; and it pleased him to think that there was a vulnerable point in her armour of pride and indifference. He would have rejoiced yet more if he had detected the effort which it cost her sometimes--not to tremble while she vanquished his savage eyes with the cold disdain of her own. The domestic picture is not pleasant enough to tempt us to linger over it. Perhaps, after all, it would have been better--it could scarcely have been worse--if Alan had staid on, and braved it out; but this is only arguing from consequences.