"It is too early for you to guess anything of that kind." "Not at all! London is pretty full. The affair has made a noise. Those who meant to stand by me would have called, don't you think?" The quivering bitterness of her face was most pitiful in Jacob's eyes. "Oh, people take their time," he said, trying to speak lightly. She shook her head. "It's ridiculous that I should care. One's self-love, I suppose--_that_ bleeds! Evelyn has made me send out cards for a little house-warming. She said I must. She made me go to that smart party at Chatton House the other night. It was a great mistake. People turned their backs on me. And this, too, will be a mistake--and a failure." "You were kind enough to send me a card." "Yes--and you must come?" She looked at him with a sudden nervous appeal, which made another tug on his self-control. "Of course I shall come." "Do you remember your own saying--that awful evening--that I had devoted friends? Well, we shall soon see." "That depends only on yourself," he replied, with gentle deliberation. She started--threw him a doubtful look. "If you mean that I must take a great deal of trouble, I am afraid I can't. I am too tired." And she sank back in her chair. The sigh that accompanied the words seemed to him involuntary, unconscious. "I didn't mean that--altogether," he said, after a moment. She moved restlessly. "Then, really, I don't know what you meant. I suppose all friendship depends on one's self." She drew her embroidery frame towards her again, and he was left to wonder at his own audacity. "Do you know," she said, presently, her eyes apparently busy with her silks, "that I have told Lord Lackington?" "Yes. Evelyn gave me that news. How has the old man behaved?" "Oh, very well--most kindly. He has already formed a habit, almost, of 'dropping in' upon me at all hours. I have had to appoint him times and seasons, or there would be no work done. He sits here and raves about young Mrs. Delaray--you know he is painting her portrait, for the famous series?--and draws her profile on the backs of my letters. He recites his speeches to me; he asks my advice as to his fights with his tenants or his miners. In short, I'm adopted--I'm almost the real thing." She smiled, and then again, as she turned over her silks, he heard her sigh--a long breath of weariness. It was strange and terrible in his ear--the contrast between this unconscious sound, drawn as it were from the oppressed heart of pain, and her languidly, smiling words. "Has he spoken to you of the Moffatts?" he asked her, presently, not looking at her. A sharp crimson color rushed over her face. "Not much. He and Lady Blanche are not great friends. And I have made him promise to keep my secret from her till I give him leave to tell it." "It will have to be known to her some time, will it not?" "Perhaps," she said, impatiently. "Perhaps, when I can make up my mind."