He stifles an angry exclamation, and resolves, with all the airs of a Spartan, to be calm. Nevertheless, he is _not_ calm, and quite doubles the amount of minutes that really elapse before the drawing-room door is thrown open and Cecil, followed by Luttrell, comes in. "Luttrell, of all men!" thinks Sir Penthony, as though he would have said, "Et tu, Brute?" forgetting to come forward,--forgetting everything,--so entirely has a wild, unreasoning jealousy mastered him. The curtains effectually conceal him, so his close proximity remains a secret. Luttrell is evidently in high spirits. His blue eyes are bright, his whole air triumphant. Altogether, he is as unlike the moony young man who left the Victoria Station last evening as one can well imagine. "Oh, Cecil! what should I do without you?" he says, in a most heartfelt manner, gazing at her as though (thinks Sir Penthony) he would much like to embrace her there and then. "How happy you have made me! And just as I was on the point of despairing! I owe you all,--everything,--the best of my life." "I am glad you rate what I have done for you so highly. But you know, Tedcastle, you were always rather a favorite of mine. Have you forgiven me my stony refusal of last night? I would have spoken willingly, but you know I was forbidden." "What is it I would _not_ forgive you?" exclaims Luttrell, gratefully. ("Last night; and again this morning: probably he will dine this evening," thinks Sir Penthony, who by this time is black with rage and cold with an unnamed fear.) Cecil is evidently as interested in her topic as her companion. Their heads are very near together,--as near as they can well be without kissing. She has placed her hand upon his arm, and is speaking in a low, earnest tone,--so low that Stafford cannot hear distinctly, the room being lengthy and the noise from the street confusing. How handsome Luttrell is looking! With what undisguised eagerness he is drinking in her every word! Suddenly, with a little movement as though of sudden remembrance, Cecil puts her hand in her pocket and draws from it a tiny note, which she squeezes with much _empressement_ into Tedcastle's hand. Then follow a few more words, and then she pushes him gently in the direction of the door. "Now go," she says, "and remember all I have said to you. Are the conditions so hard?" With her old charming, bewitching smile. "How shall I thank you?" says the young man, fervently, his whole face transformed. He seizes her hands and presses his lips to them in what seems to the looker-on at the other end of the room an impassioned manner. "You have managed that we shall meet,--and alone?" "Yes, alone. I have made sure of that. I really think, considering all I have done for you, Tedcastle, you owe me something." "Name anything," says Luttrell, with considerable fervor. "I owe you, as I have said, everything. You are my good angel!"