“Thank you for the reminder,” she answered, and he bit his lip with vexation. “Well, he hath taken her to attend on her Majesty, I presume, since that is where his duties detain him. You had better seek them there.” A thrill shot through his veins in the sudden thought that she was jealous. “Not I,” he said. “I know where I am well off, if Phil does not.” A faintest increase of colour flushed her cheek, but she worked on steadily. “Still,” she said, “in spite of their inseparability, as you consider it, I do not doubt but that she is in the house at this moment. Shall I send her a message that you are here?” “What are you implying, if you please, cousin?” he said. “Why,” she answered quietly, “you knew very well that my lord was elsewhere, and concluded my absence from his. Who other than Mrs. Davis, then, could have been the object of this clandestine visit?” He heard; he smiled to himself; he drew his chair a little closer. “Kate,” he said, “are you in very truth jealous?” She cast one startled glance at him, but, though her bosom betrayed its own disquiet, maintained her self-possession. “Jealous?” she said. “Of Mrs. Davis and my husband?” “No,” he answered, “but of Mrs. Davis?” He sought to convey a world of meaning into his look, his tone. “Shall I confess the truth?” he said. “It _was_ Mrs. Davis I expected to find alone here.” “I will send her to you.” She rose. “No, no!” He begged her, with a gesture, to be seated again; but she refused to respond. “Be your kind and reasonable self. You misconceive me--indeed you do. I had come to a resolution--it was to see this young woman, and urge upon her, by every motive of decency and consideration, to leave this house, and cease to take advantage of a grotesque situation to persecute and humiliate you.” She stood looking down at him, still impassive, still inscrutable. “I should be grateful to you, cousin,” she said; “but I am humiliated in nothing but your thinking me so.” “At least you are unhappy.” “O no, indeed!” “Not? Well, it is true that freedom has its compensations, sweeter by contrast than any rich possession. And morally you are free, cousin.” “I know I am.” “Free to choose.” “I choose freedom.” “Ah! but with love!” He caught lightly at her skirt; but she withdrew it sharply from him. “There is no need to act,” she said, “when there is no audience.” “Indeed, I am not acting,” he answered. “I am glad of it,” she said, “because it is a bad play. I prefer you in your part, cousin, of the disinterested friend.” Then he was stung to a foolish retort. “Like the Duke of York.” She started, ever so slightly. “What about him?” “Was that the character he came to play when he visited you yesterday in your private apartments?” To his surprise she answered him with perfect apparent serenity. “Of course. He merely came to borrow my guitar of me.”