Leycester came along the terrace, and raising his eyes, heavy and clouded, saw the ladies, but he only raised his hat and passed on. Then he came to where the figure in white, glimmering with pearls and diamonds, leaned against the column and he hesitated a moment, but there was no look of invitation in her eyes, only a faint smile, and he merely raised his hat again and passed on; but, half unconsciously, he had taken in the loveliness and grace of the picture that she made, and that was all that she desired for the present. With heavy steps he crossed the hall, climbed the stairs, and entered his own room. His man Oliver, who had been waiting for him and hanging about, came in softly, but stole out again at sight of the dusky figure lying wearily on the chair; but presently Leycester called him and he went back. "Get a bath ready, Oliver," he said, "and pack a portmanteau; we shall leave to-night." "Very good, my lord," was the quiet response, and then he went to prepare the bath. Leycester got up and strode to and fro. Though she had never entered his rooms, the apartments seemed full of her; from the easel stared the disfigured Venus which he had daubed out on the first night he had seen her. On the table, in an Etruscan vase of crystal, were some of the wild flowers which her hand had plucked, her lips had pressed. These he took--not fiercely but solemnly--and threw out of the window. Suddenly there floated upon the air the strains of solemn music. He started. He had almost forgotten Lilian; the great sorrow and misery had almost driven her from his memory. He sat the vase down upon the table, and went to her room; she knew his knock, and bade him come in, still playing. But as he entered, she stopped suddenly, and the smile which had flown to her face to welcome him disappeared. "Ley!" she breathed, looking up at his pale, haggard face and dark-rimmed eyes; "what has happened? What is the matter?" He stood beside her, and bent and kissed her; his lips were dry and burning. "Ley! Ley!" she murmured, and put her white arm round his neck to draw him down to her, "what is it?" Then she scanned him with loving anxiety. "How tired you look, Ley! Where have you been? Sit down!" He sank into a low seat at her feet, and motioned to the piano. "Go on playing," he said. She started at his hoarse, dry voice, but turned to the piano, and played softly, and presently she knew, rather than saw, that he had hidden his face in his hands. Then she stopped and bent over him. "Now tell me, Ley!" she murmured. He looked up with a bitter smile that cut her to the heart. "It is soon told, Lil," he said, in a low voice, "and it is only an old, old story!" "Ley!" "I can tell you--I could tell only you, Lil--in a very few words. I have loved--and been deceived." She did not speak, but she put her hand on his head where it lay like a peaceful benediction.