"Just what I say. And, as I never so far forget myself as to call _you_ by your Christian name without its prefix, I think you might have the courtesy to address _me_ as Lady Stafford." "Certainly, if you wish it." "I do. Have you anything more to say?" "Yes, more than----" "Then pray defer it until to-morrow, as"--with a bare-faced attempt at a yawn--"I really cannot sit up any longer. Good-night, Sir Penthony." Sir Penthony puts the end of his long moustache into his mouth,--a sure sign of irritation,--and declines to answer. "Good-night," repeats her ladyship, blandly, going up the staircase, with a suspicion of a smile at the corners of her lips, and feeling no surprise that her polite little adieu receives no reply. When she has reached the centre of the broad staircase she pauses, and, leaning her white arms upon the banisters, looks down upon her husband, standing irresolute and angry in the hall beneath. "Sir Penthony," murmurs she; "Sir----" Here she hesitates for so long a time that when at last the "Penthony" does come it sounds more familiar and almost unconnected with the preceding word. Stafford turns, and glances quickly up at her. She is dressed in some soft-flowing gown of black, caught here and there with heavy bows and bands of cream-color, that contrast admirably with her hair, soft skin, her laughing eyes, and her pouting, rosy lips. In her hair, which she wears low on her neck, is a black comb studded with pearls; there are a few pearls round her neck, a few more in her small ears; she wears no bracelets, only two narrow bands of black velvet caught with pearls, that make her arms seem even rounder and whiter than they are. "Good-night," she says, for the third time, nodding at him in a slow, sweet fashion that has some grace or charm about it all its own, and makes her at the instant ten times lovelier than she was before. Stafford, coming forward until he stands right under her, gazes up at her entranced like some modern Romeo. Indeed, there is something almost theatrical about them as they linger, each waiting for the other to speak,--he fond and impassioned, yet half angry too, she calm and smiling, yet mutinous. For a full minute they thus hesitate, looking into each other's eyes; then the anger fades from Stafford's face, and he whispers, eagerly, tenderly: "Good-night, my----" "Friend," murmurs back her ladyship, decisively, leaning yet a little farther over the banisters. Then she kisses her hand to him and drops at his feet the rose that has lain on her bosom all the evening, and, with a last backward glance and smile, flits away from him up the darkened staircase and vanishes. "I shall positively lose my heart to her if I don't take care," thinks the young man, ruefully, and very foolishly, considering how long ago it is since that misfortune has befallen him. But we are ever slow to acknowledge our own defeats. His eyes are fixed upon the flower at his feet.