"Painted!" cried Lady Aspasia to herself, her gaze fixed hungrily. "No"—for here Sir Arthur bent to kiss his wife, and the scarlet cheek turned to him was suddenly blanched—"No. What’s the matter with the creature? She looks as if she were going to faint." But Lady Aspasia was in no mood to follow the fertile train of thought suggested by Lady Gerardine’s evident emotion under her husband’s caress; her own emotions were for the moment unwontedly acute and painful. Sir Arthur’s fond and proud look at his beautiful consort struck the old love with a stab. She was not even regretted! "My dear," said Sir Arthur, one of his wife’s cold hands in his, "here is Lady Aspasia, of whom you have heard so much." Then Lady Aspasia remembered her manners, and rose to greet her hostess. As she did so, she caught the reflection both of herself and of Lady Gerardine side by side in the mirror over the chimney-piece. Both tall women, their heads were nearly on a level; but between the two faces what a chasm! How could the old love be regretted? She was not even regrettable. The elder woman gave a harsh laugh. "Awfully glad," she muttered, for once at a loss for words. "She’s got it all," she was saying to herself. "Youth and beauty—and Arty. Poor Arty; she does not care a snap of her finger for him, and Heaven knows what’s on her conscience!" "You remember Dr. Châtelard, my love," proceeded Sir Arthur. M. Châtelard made his preliminary French bow, and respectfully took possession of Rosamond’s icy fingers. While his lips were forming an elegant little speech of greeting, while he was assuring her ladyship of his acute sense of privilege at being under her roof, his swift thoughts were busy on fresh conclusions. He looked down at the pale hand, the death-like touch of which lay inert in his palm, and up at the hectic loveliness of the face. "C’est qu’elle est malade—tres malade même!" he said to himself, with sudden gravity. "Ah, she is not one to whom sin is easy! The young man may remember he was warned." And, as he gave his arm to his hostess to lead her into the dining-room, he was perhaps the only member of the company to realise that Lady Gerardine had not so far uttered a single word. "This will end in tragedy," he told himself again; and the ring of Sir Arthur’s laugh, the jovial content of his voice behind him, struck the Frenchman’s ear, mere student of psychology as he was, with an actual sensation of pain. As they crossed the hall they passed the figure of the Indian secretary standing motionless, with folded arms, at the further end. The man salaamed as they went by, and M. Châtelard felt Lady Gerardine shudder. "Does the Eastern inspire you with repugnance?" queried he, as they entered the dining-room. "With horror," she answered, in a deep, vibrating voice; "with hatred." The note of her passion was so incongruous to the occasion that the traveller found nothing to reply.