“That is strange,” Harry said. Once more he looked at her so affectionately, with a kind look of pleasure in his eyes, that Lydia was more and more bewildered. “It is a great compliment to me, as Paolo says.” “My mother seems to want you, Lydia,” said Lionel, very coldly. He did not like it at all. It seemed to him that Oliver, who was a married man, was forgetting himself altogether, though he was an Englishman, and ought to have known better; and was paying court undisguisedly to Lydia as well as this little hop-o’-my-thumb of an Italian who was languishing at her feet, just like a foreigner, showing off those sentiments which an Englishman has the delicacy to conceal. And Lydia was pleased! Was it possible? Such a thoroughly nice girl, so modest and delightful in all her ways, never putting herself forward, always with the pretty reserve in her frankness which is the very bloom of maidenhood. To think that she should be pleased! Lionel felt that he could not understand it. This, no doubt, was the sort of thing which made cynics declare women to be incomprehensible creatures. A really nice girl, everything about her good and pure, and yet this kind of thing actually pleased her! Lionel’s indignation, and disgust, and disappointment were extreme, but he tried to restrain himself. “My mother is looking for you,” he said. “And I suppose she wants to go. You must not forget my father has been ill, and that we have a long journey before us.” He hoped the fellow would understand this; that she was going away to-morrow, and that he had no further chance of philandering in this barefaced way; and he hoped Liddy understood that he thought her forgetful and inconsiderate, and showing no feeling for poor old Sir John, not to speak of Sir John’s son. But his ill-temper did not have so great an effect as it might have had in other circumstances. She was looking up at Oliver, wondering, with her pretty eyebrows slightly raised and a softened, gentle, almost child-like look, interrogating the eyes of that fellow, who was a married man! Lionel thought it absolutely immoral. He was disgusted and bewildered, and did not know what to think. He made another step nearer and offered her his arm. “My mother,” he repeated, with some sharpness, “is moving to go away.” Lydia made no resistance. She took his arm quite submissively, and held out her other hand. “Good night,” she said to Harry. “I suppose we must be of the same country, as we have the same voice.” “Yes,” he said, holding her hand a moment, “we are of the same country, and I know what you think; but it is not that.” “It is not _that_? What is it?” Lydia said, with a startled look, as if she saw light somewhere; but then Rita came forward with Lady Brotherton and took leave coldly of Miss Joscelyn, and there was nothing for it but to go away. CHAPTER XI. THE COUNSELS OF THE NIGHT.