"Leave Flora a little to Goodwood; he has a right--he spoke decisively to her to-day." Carruthers bowed his head, and stooped lower for the fan. He left her accordingly to Goodwood till the curtain fell after the last act of the "Barbiere;" and Lady Marabout congratulated herself on her own adroitness. "There is nothing like a little tact," she thought; "what would society be without the guiding genius of tact, I wonder? One dreadful Donnybrook Fair!" But, someway or other, despite all her tact, or because her son inherited that valuable quality in a triple measure to herself, someway, it was Goodwood who led her to her carriage, and Carruthers who led the little Montolieu. "Terribly _bête_ of Philip; how very unlike him!" mused Lady Marabout, as she gathered her burnous round her. Carruthers talked and laughed as he led Flora Montolieu through the passages, more gayly, perhaps, than usual. "My mother has told me some news to-night, Miss Montolieu," he said, carelessly. "Am I premature in proffering you my congratulations? But even if I be so, you will not refuse the privilege to an old friend--to a very sincere friend--and will allow me to be the first to wish you happiness?" Lady Marabout's carriage stopped the way. Flora Montolieu colored, looked full at him, and went to it, without having time to answer his congratulations, in which the keenest-sighted hearer would have failed to detect anything beyond every-day friendship and genuine indifference. The most truthful men will make the most consummate actors when spurred up to it. "My dear child, you look ill to-night; I am glad you have no engagements," said Lady Marabout, as she sat down before the dressing-room fire, toasting her little satin-shod foot--she has a weakness for fire even in the hottest weather--while Flora Montolieu lay back in a low chair, crushing the roses mercilessly. "You _do_ feel well? I should not have thought so, your face looks so flushed, and your eyes so preternaturally dark. Perhaps it is the late hours; you were not used to them in France, of course, and it must be such a change to this life from your unvarying conventual routine at St. Denis. My love, what was it Lord Goodwood said to you to-day?" "Do not speak to me of him, Lady Marabout, I hate his name!" Lady Marabout started with an astonishment that nearly upset the cup of coffee she was sipping. "Hate his name? My dearest Flora, why, in Heaven's name?" Flora did not answer; she pulled the roses off her hair as though they had been infected with Brinvilliers' poison. "What has he done?" "_He_ has done nothing!" "Who has done anything, then?" "Oh, no one--no one has done anything, but--I am sick of Lord Goodwood's name--tired of it!" Lady Marabout sat almost speechless with surprise. "Tired of it, my dear Flora?" Little Montolieu laughed: