'I'm sure you can never have,' hesitatingly, 'been in love, have you?' and she glances up at him. 'I'm so sorry I said that,' she adds, noticing the pained look that comes into his eyes, and then a silence ensues. 'Look here, Lippa,' says he at length in rather a lower tone, 'don't you know, has no one told you that I was married five years ago.' 'Married?' exclaims Miss Seaton in astonishment, 'oh, I'm so sorry I said that.' 'It does not matter in the least,' he replies, 'but I should think no one has been more desperately in love than I was once.' 'She, your wife, is dead?' asks Lippa quietly. 'I would to Heaven she were,' is the quick reply. 'No, child, don't think of me as a lonely widower,' this with a laugh that is hard and grating, 'I'm worse than that.' 'Poor Paul,' says Lippa gently, while her eyes fill with tears, and she lays her hand on his unoccupied one, the hard look quits his handsome face, and he sighs. 'Good little soul,' he says possessing himself of it. Meanwhile Dalrymple is devoured with curiosity as to what this earnest conversation can be about. He has listened patiently to Lady Anne, who has gone through all the books she has read lately, arguing on their merits and demerits, and now she is enlarging on the degenerating manners of the rising generation. Jimmy puts in a 'Yes' or 'No,' or 'I quite agree with you,' every now and then, but for aught he knows he may be agreeing that red's white, and white is black. But at last he says something that does not suit Lady Anne for she says, 'Do you really mean to say you do?' Jimmy feels caught; what in the name of fortune _does_ he really mean to say, he has not the faintest idea, so he says-- 'I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid I did not quite hear what you said, I--er have rather a bad headache.' (Oh Jimmy, Jimmy). 'Have you?' replies Lady Anne. 'I hope it is not a very bad one, you ought to have stayed at home; the best thing of course to do is to lie down; and have you ever tried Menthol, white stuff that you rub on your forehead; and then there is a certain kind of powder, I can't remember what they are called. Ah! I have it,' and Lady Anne who has been fumbling in her pocket produces a salts bottle. 'There,' she says, 'I have nothing else to offer you.' 'Thanks very much,' says Dalrymple, and feeling bound to use it, takes a vigorous sniff, but it is strong and proves too much for him, for he is seized with a violent choking. 'What's the matter?' inquires Ponsonby, glancing round. 'Lady Anne, what have you been doing to him?' 'Oh, it's only my salts bottle, he has a headache, you know,' she replies, while Jimmy looks decidedly embarrassed.