She had come from the piano, and now sat near him upon a low chair. The silence deepened as she hunted for an opening. Then suddenly she uttered her secret thought: "I wonder how much you love me, Peter?" Peter did not in words answer her quiet speculation. He dropped softly beside her on the rug, putting his free hand between hers. There calmly it lay upon her lap as he looked at the fire. The minutes passed till Lady Mary found them intolerable. Her hands closed tightly upon his. "Peter, dear," she whispered. Peter turned slowly towards her, startled by the stress of her voice, startled yet more when he found it in her eyes. "You are in trouble?" "I have something to tell you," she said. "About yourself?" Lady Mary bent her head. "You remember," she went on, "our evening on the water?" "I shall not forget it." "I said then that the time might come when I should be drawn away from you." "That is impossible," he protested. "I cannot lose you. I shall always know that you are wonderful." "Will you always think of me like that?" she mournfully wondered. "You are sacred," said Peter simply. He bent to kiss her fingers, but she drew them sharply back. "No, Peter," she cried in pain; "I have given your hand away." Peter stared at her. "Do you mean," he slowly asked, "that I have no share in you at all?" "Tell me"--she spoke in a low voice, and her eyes were veiled--"will you hold me sacred"--she shyly quoted his word--"as the wife of another man?" Peter struggled with this new idea. It raised in him a bitter confusion. His calm devotion was shaken and stirred. Above it triumphed a sense of loss, an instinct to grasp at something threatened. "You are pledged?" he abruptly asked. "Yes, Peter." It came from her like a confession. The idea was now being driven into his brain. He looked at Lady Mary as he had not looked before. She sat back in her chair, turning aside from him. With opened eyes, he saw now the beauty of a woman snatched away. He leant towards her, uttering one hungry syllable: "Who?" It was the first time Peter's voice had challenged her. The adoration had gone out of it. It was hard. "Does it matter?" she protested. "It is a secret, then?" he coldly asked. "No; I have promised to marry Lord Wenderby." "Lord Wenderby," he echoed. The name tore savagely at his heart, wounding him into jealousy and distrust. He was all blind passion now. Wenderby sprang to his eye, as he had stood darkly beside Lady Mary at the theatre. He saw, redly, in his galloping mind, his shining angel--now a beautiful woman he had exquisitely touched--possessed by another. "Turn to me, Lady Mary." It was a command, and she obeyed. She bravely met his burning look, but she did not know how unendurable it had become. It searched and denounced her. Her eyes failed. "You do not love Lord Wenderby." Now he accused her. She collected her mind for a defence. "It is not so simple as that," she pleaded. "You do not love him," he repeated.