I have always loved old Cavendish Square on a summer evening, when its garden is looking fresh and green, and its stately houses are wearing their brightest aspect. There were dinner-parties going on, carriages coming and going, well-groomed horses prancing, tall menservants here and there, but I could not take my usual pleasure in the scene. I managed to talk (with a fair show of good spirits), and Ronald did his best to be good-humoured, yet there were certain words of his that lay heavily on my heart. He had borrowed money of William Greystock. This new cause for anxiety drove all jealous thoughts of Miss Lorimer out of my head for a time. It was an unlooked-for fear, which had suddenly started up in a path already thickly-planted with thorns. I had no doubt that my husband had perfect faith in those investments of which he spoke so brightly; but I also knew that it was a faith derived from Greystock alone, and not from his own knowledge of matters of business. I might be unreasonable and unjust; I had not the slightest ground for suspicion, and yet I dreaded William Greystock more now than I had ever done before. He had got a hold on Ronald. The thought made my spirit sink within me, for my instincts had detected the cruelty that was latent in his nature. If he were kind, there must be a cruel motive for the kindness. And I—fragile, weary, already spent with a sore conflict—what could I do to deliver my husband from the strong hand that held him fast? That night, I lay awake while Ronald slept peacefully by my side. There was no change in my love for him; it was as pure and true as it had been on the day when we came out of the old church, man and wife; but I was beginning to lose confidence in myself. And deep in my soul dwelt the haunting fear that he was growing a little weary of the wife he had wedded. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XI. POISONED WORDS. THE summer days, so full of joy for others, brought only sorrow and weariness to me. Marian came to me often, and her looks seemed to invite the confidence which I would not bestow. At her first coming, I had been prompted to open my heart to her; but, after the dinner-party in Curzon Street, my impulse was checked. I was far too proud to tell her that I was jealous of my husband's old sweetheart; and she had too much delicacy to let me see that she suspected such a thing. Yet sometimes I almost fancied that she had found out the reason of my reserve. I carefully avoided all mention of Miss Lorimer, but one day Marian introduced her name. "Ida Lorimer is one of Aunt Baldock's friends," she remarked. "She always manages to amuse the old lady with her chitchat, and that is why she is asked to all our dinner-parties." From Marian's tone, I inferred that she did not want Ida to be her friend; but I kept silence.