"There will be a terrible storm," he muttered. "His people will cut up rough, and I shall, of course, bear some portion of the blame; but I don't mind that! It is Ley I am thinking of! Will it turn out all right?" He was asking himself the question dolefully and helplessly as he descended the stairs, when he became conscious of the graceful form of Lady Lenore standing in the hall and looking up at him. She had watched Lord Leycester's departure from the window; she knew that he was going to town suddenly--knew that Lord Charles had been closeted with him, and now only needed to glance at Lord Charles' rueful face to be convinced that something had happened. But there was nothing of this in her smile as she looked up at him, gently fluttering a Japanese fan, and holding back the trailing skirts with her white, bejeweled fingers. Lord Charles started as he saw her. "By Jove!" he murmured, "if it is as I think, what will she do?" and with an instinctive dread he felt half inclined to turn and reascend the stairs, but Lenore was too quick for him. "We have been looking for you, Lord Charles," she said, languidly. "Some rash individual has proposed lawn-tennis; we want you to play." Lord Charles looked confused. The letter burnt his pocket, and he knew that he should know no peace until he got rid of it. "Awfully sorry," he said; "going down to the post-office to post a letter." Lady Lenore smiled, and glanced archly at the clock. "No post till seven," she said; "won't it do after our game?" "No post!" he said, with affected concern. "Better telegraph," he muttered. "I'll get you a form!" she said, sweetly; "and you can send it by one of the pages." "Eh?" he stammered, blushing like a school-boy. "No, don't trouble; couldn't think of it. After all it doesn't matter." Then she knew that Leycester had given him some missive, and she watched him closely. No poorer hand at deception than poor Charles could possibly be imagined; he felt as if the softly-smiling velvet eyes could see into his pocket, and his hand closed over the letter with a movement that she noted instantly. "It is a letter," she thought, "and it is for her." And a pang of jealous fire ran through her, but she still looked up at him with a languid smile. "Well, are you coming?" "Of course," he assented, with too palpably-feigned alacrity. And he ran down the stairs. She caught up a sun-hat and put it on, and pointed to the racquets that stood in their stand in the hall. She would not let him out of her sight for a moment. "They are all waiting," she said. He followed her on to the lawn. The group stood playing with the balls, and waiting impatiently. Lord Charles looked round helplessly, but he had no time to think. "Shall we play together?" said Lenore. "We know each other's play so well." Lord Charles nodded, not too gallantly. "All right," he said; and as he spoke, his hand wandered to his pocket.