“St. John’s Wood is still standing,” he remarked easily. “As for Raimond, no one sees less of him than I,” yet she had made him angry; there was no one weaker than Raimond about a handsome face, and he had been struck with this penniless girl already. “I hear the lovely Andria is----” she hesitated. “Gone the way of all flesh, I believe, in hope of further exaltation,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. No one would have believed how hard he had worked to obtain just that result as he sat looking at his visitor with critical admiration. She really wore wonderfully! “Well, you’re off! And you may have those diamonds you wanted, to take with you.” He had caught her expectant eyes. “What! Something finer?” “I--I would rather have that paper of mine. Please, Erceldonne!” she said, with an earnestness that sat ill on her. He rose, flicked her cheek lightly, and laughed. “Not yet, my dear Emeline; I can’t spare it.” There were tears in her hard eyes as he put a velvet case in her hand, but she dared not implore him. She knew him. She had got his “fancy” for him; she had hoped that would have wiped off the old score; but the man was too careful a blackguard. Only one shot did the supposed “Mrs. Fuller” fire as she said good-by. “The girl is a handful, even for you. I don’t think you can do anything with her.” “Perhaps not.” Lord Erceldonne laughed in that sudden, unpleasant, loud cackle. “Oh, my dear Emeline! you have a short memory.” The poor, painted, little sinner started; for the blow was cruel. Erceldonne laughed again as she crept out of the room she had entered so jauntily. He knew all her secrets; and she had not even touched the garment’s hem of his. CHAPTER VIII. A WOMAN’S DIARY. “Tuesday, Dec. 7th. “I never knew how much I read till now, when I have no books. Time hangs and hangs; writing this thing helps to pass it, though there is nothing to put down. I can’t think; I feel as if all this were a dream. This horrid room in Chelsea, and all those boxes left ‘to be called for’ at Paddington station. When they come to sell them--for that’s what they do with unclaimed things--they will wonder how the owner had the heart to forget them. But perhaps they won’t know each one of those plain dresses cost twenty pounds. “I wish I had what they cost; I never realized what it took to live. I am going to realize it well enough next week, when I must get something to do, or starve. “I write down all these sordid little sentences because I daren’t write the only thought that is in my mind. I would go mad if I let myself remember--and I can’t forget. Better to put down how I’ve lived for a month on ten pounds. I, who threw away as much of a morning to pass the time!