A gleam of fierce scorn came into Norah’s violet eyes, and then flashed out again, leaving them dim as with unshed tears. “Whatever I might have cared for I am not likely to get.” Her tone was sad, her face so wistful, Colonel Dacre forgot her bad accent, and said with earnest sympathy: “Anyhow, don’t make a mull of your life, Norah, in a fit of the blues. There is no reason why you shouldn’t be happy.” “None whatever,” she replied, with a forced laugh. “Then it is true about the Russian prince?” “Come, Lawrence, you have quite enough to do to attend to your domestic duties!” she retorted gaily. “Go home and show that letter to your wife--and--don’t meddle in my affairs. No man can serve two masters, you know.” “Still, I think he might serve his friend without being in the least degree disloyal to his wife.” “Perhaps, I really don’t know--but I fancy the interest of the two would clash occasionally. However, I am not going to try the experiment. But your wife will be wondering what has become of you. Good-by, Lawrence;” and she held out her hand to him with a softened air. “I should like you to tell Lady Gwendolyn from me, if you thought she would care for the confession, that I am very sorry to have misjudged her.” “I know she will be pleased to hear that you have found out your mistake.” “Then tell her by all means, and good-by once more.” He kissed her hand affectionately, and was moving toward the door, when she called him back to say, with a flash of her old humor: “A fellow I met at Nice told me that ere long there might be an heir to Borton Hall. Is it true?” “Tell me about the Russian prince first. Is that true?” “Yes,” she said, hanging her head a little. “So is the other, then.” She nodded to him benevolently, but there were tears still in her eyes, and he seemed to see only them as he turned for one last look at his old friend’s widow ere she disappeared out of his life forever. Lady Gwendolyn was reading in the salon as her husband entered, but, instead of greeting him with a smile, according to her wont, she went on with her paper, and did not even glance his way. He glided behind her, placed his hands round her slender throat, and drew her head back on his breast. “Well, Gwen,” he said, trying to look into her eyes. “What is it, my love?” “Nothing,” she answered, with an air of assumed indifference. “I had a bad headache this morning.” “No wonder, as you cried yourself to sleep.” She started violently. “How do you know?” “Through my eyes and my ears, Gwen.” She lowered her long lashes, and her lips quivered. “Well,” he added presently, “I am waiting to know what all this means.” “It is nothing of the least consequence.” “Pardon me, Gwen, anything that causes you tears must be of the greatest possible consequence to me.” “Oh! women cry for nothing, you know.” “Some may, but you do not, Gwen. I have not seen a tear in your eye, until last night, ever since our marriage.” “I was so happy,” she sighed.