The long-continued pressure of secret cares—the weakness caused by enfeebled health—the consciousness of altered looks—all these things combined to render me morbid and suspicious as the hours of that memorable evening went on. Once I caught a glimpse of my own mournful little face in a glass; and in the background I saw Miss Lorimer's golden head. What a poor, frail creature I seemed beside that splendid blonde! Mr. Hartley tried to draw me into a conversation, and Marian came many times to my side with smiles and kind words; but nothing could make me forget Miss Lorimer's presence. At first the stately beauty seemed disposed to ignore me altogether. Once or twice I fancied that she was quietly quizzing my unfortunate black silk, and making silent comments on my dejected aspect. In her eyes I was a little nobody—Lady Waterville's companion—who had been married by Ronald Hepburne in one of his romantic freaks. But before the evening was over, she seemed to have a desire to know something more about me, and came to the corner where I had taken refuge. "Mr. Hepburne and I are old friends," she said, with a gracious society smile. "I had been wondering where he had hidden himself after his marriage; but he has been telling me about that long illness. How sad it must have been for you! Nursing is such dreary work, isn't it?" "It was very sad," I admitted quietly, feeling that there was no real sympathy in the cold blue eyes that met mine. "But he is quite well now, and almost as strong as ever." "He still looks delicate, I fancy. However, Mr. Greystock tells me that he is learning to be a City man, and that must require a great deal of strength and energy I am sure. What a delightful man Mr. Greystock is!" "I suppose so; I don't know him very well," I replied. "He will be a great help to Mr. Hepburne," she went on, still eyeing me coldly. "Such an excellent adviser and friend. By the way, you are musical, I daresay?" "No; I am very fond of music, but I neither play nor sing." "Really; and Mr. Hepburne sings so well. His love for his guitar used to be almost a mania; has he given it up?" "Oh, no," said Marian Bailey, coming to my corner, and taking it on herself to answer the question. "His guitar is always taken up in spare moments, and the verses that Mrs. Hepburne writes for him to sing are some of the most charming things you ever heard." "Really?" repeated Miss Lorimer, raising her golden eyebrows. "I must ask to see those verses one of these days."