The earl looked round the room at the many beautiful graceful women who adorned it, and sighed impatiently. "He is hard to please." "He is," assented the countess, with the same touch of pride. "It is time he married and settled," continued the earl. "For most men a year or two would not matter, but with him--I do not like to think that the title rests only on our two lives, as mine must be near its close." "Algernon!" "And on his, which is risked daily." He stooped, silenced by the sudden look of pain in the beautiful eyes. "Why do you not speak to him? He will do anything for you." The countess smiled. "Everything but that. No, I cannot speak to him; it would be useless. I do not wish to weaken my influence." "Get Lilian to speak to him," he said. The countess sighed. "Lilian!" she murmured; "she would not do it. She thinks him something more than human, and that no woman in the world can be good enough to--to hold his stirrup or fill his wineglass." The earl frowned. "Between you," he said, "you have spoiled him." The countess shook her head gently. "No, we have not. He is now as a man what he was as a boy. Do you remember what Nelson said, when Hardy asked him why he did nothing while one of their ships was fighting two of the enemy's? 'I am doing all I can--watching.'" Before the earl could reply, a cabinet minister came up and engaged him in conversation, and the countess rose and crossed the room to where an elderly lady sat with a portfolio of engravings before her. It was the Dowager Countess of Longford, a tiny little woman with a thin wrinkled face, and keen but kindly gray eyes that lit up her white face and made it remarkable. She was dressed as simply as a quakeress, excepting for some old and priceless lace which softened the rigor of her plainly made gray satin dress. She looked up as the younger countess approached, and made room for her on the sofa. Lady Wyndward sat down in silence, which was unbroken for a minute. Then the old countess said without looking at her-- "The boy grows handsomer every day, Ethel!" Lady Wyndward sighed. "What is the matter?" asked the other, with a keen smile. "What has he been doing now, burning a church or running off with a Lord Mayor's daughter?" "He has not been doing anything very much," answered Lady Wyndward. "Except losing some money." The old countess raised her eyebrows lightly. "That does not matter." "Not much. No, he has not been doing anything; I wish he would. That's what is the matter." "I understand," retorted the other. "He is most dangerous when quiet; you are always afraid he is preparing for some piece of madness beyond the ordinary. Well, my dear, if you will give the world such a creature you must put up with the consequences--be prepared to pay the penalty. I should be quite content to do so." "Ah, you don't know," said the countess, with a smile that had something pathetic in it.