O, bright dream that she had dreamt--never to be realised! That glorious vision of life in sunny lands, a life that should have been an endless love-song--gay, flowing, melodious as a ballad by Suckling or Prior. The journey, whose every stage fancy had pictured; the fetterless existence, unoppressed by the restraints of ceremony, or the formalities of a Court--life lived for its own sake, not to please the public eye. And he baulked her every hope; he flung her back upon the husband she loathed--the splendour of which she was sick unto death. He told her that for her sake it was best they should part; that reputation is the jewel of a woman's life; that he had reflected in solitude and silence upon the sacrifice she had been about to make for him; and that reflection had convinced him he would be a scoundrel to accept such a sacrifice. Loving her passionately, devoted to her with all his heart, honour constrained him to bid her adieu for ever. "Coward, coward, coward!" she hissed between her clenched teeth, when there came a lull in her storm of grief. Then she rose in her wrath, tall as Juno, straight as a dart, and faced Herrick with a sardonic smile. "Well, sir, we have played out our comedy (his lordship and I), and the play is somewhat shorter than I fancied it would be; the curtain is down, and the candles are out; the spectators can all go home again. If 'twas not a wager on his lordship's side, 'twas almost as pretty a device any way. I acknowledge that you and he are winners: you have had the best of me." She made him a low curtsy, one of those graceful sweeping curtsies of the patch and powder period which are an extinct art. She swept the ground with her brocade train and rose again, swan-like, or like a new Venus rising from billows of silk and lace. She had dashed the tears from her cheeks, and when the footman came in presently to light the candles in the sconces, there was no sign of grief upon her face, save its unnatural pallor, and the hectic spot on each cheek which intensified that livid whiteness. "Is it an impertinence to wish you good-night, Mr. Durnford?" she asked, when the servant had retired. "Nay, Lady Judith, I would not trespass on your courtesy for another moment." He bowed, and was departing, when she stopped him. "There was a wagon to carry my trunks to New Cross," she said. "It will look foolish if my luggage is diverted that way while I--" "The wagon has been stopped, madam. I saw to that an hour ago." "Then there is no more to be said, and his lordship need apprehend no ill-consequences from his--jest." "Lady Judith, I am convinced you know better than--" "I know nothing, sir, except that I have been fooled," she answered, her eyes flashing angry fire at him from under the darkly-pencilled brows. "Why are you such ages in taking your leave? Good-night, sir, good-night."