"I tell you," she continued, as he passed on to the dining-rooms, "I will go back alone. Ugh! how I despise you!" loathing and contempt stung in her words. "If only my father were here, he would never permit----" She turned suddenly, and crossed the hall to the staircase, coming face to face with the Secretary. "What-- Inez? You? I did not know you were in London. But of course-- I might have known-- Then that was Colonel Darcy? I have never had an opportunity to congratulate him or--to wish you every happiness," he added bitterly. "Don't, Jim! Don't!" There was something suspiciously like a sob in her low voice. "That is a mockery I cannot stand--at least from you." "I fail to understand how my wishes, good or otherwise, would mean anything to Madame Darcy." "No--you do not understand. That is just it. Oh, Jim--it has all been a piteous, horrible mistake. They lied to me--and then you did not come back. They said you were--oh, can't you see?" The Secretary looked at the beautiful face before him, now flushed and distressed. How well he knew every line of that exquisite profile and the hair parted low and drawn back lightly from the brow. "Let me explain," he urged hotly. Madame Darcy had recovered her self-possession and drew herself up with a gesture of proud dignity. "No--" she answered gently. "This is neither the time nor place for explanations between us. Will you see me to my carriage--please?" "Oh, don't go! I need you so. Please stay and help me out of a most embarrassing situation." "What can I do for you?" "Well, you see it is a most awkward predicament. My chaperon has been taken suddenly ill at the last moment, and is unable to be present," he began, plunging boldly into his subject. "As I am entertaining two young ladies at dinner to-night, you will understand my unfortunate situation. Will you honour me by accepting the vacant place at the head of my table, as my chaperon?" Madame Darcy said nothing for a moment, but looked intently at the Secretary. "Who form your party, Mr. Stanley?" she asked presently. "Do not call me Mr. Stanley, Inez." "It is better--at least for the present." "As you wish, Madame Darcy," he acquiesced stiffly. "I cannot explain now--but believe me it is wiser. And your party consists of--?" "Lady Isabelle McLane, daughter of the Dowager Marchioness of Port Arthur, Miss Fitzgerald, a niece of Lord Axminster, Lieutenant Kingsland, of the Royal Navy, and Lionel Kent-Lauriston--well, everybody knows him." She smiled. "Yes," she said, "I have met him; he is most charming." In saying which she but voiced the generally accepted verdict of society.