"What is his name?" said Lady Western, with a smile as radiant as a sunbeam. "His name is Fordham--Herbert Fordham: I do not know where he comes from, nor whether he is of any profession; nor, indeed, anything but his name. I have been in town to-day----" Here Vincent came to a sudden stop. He had withdrawn his eyes from that smile of hers for the moment. When he raised them again, the beautiful picture was changed as if by magic. Her eyes were fixed upon him dilated and almost wild. Her face was deadly pale. Her hands, which had been lying lightly crossed, grasped each other in a grasp of sudden anguish and self-control. He stopped short with a pang too bitter and strange for utterance. At that touch all his fancies dispersed into the air. He came to himself strangely, with a sense of chill and desolation. In one instant, from the height of momentary bliss down to the miserable flat of conscious unimportance. Such a downfall was too much for man to endure without showing it. He stopped short at the aspect of her face. "You have been in town to-day?" she repeated, pointedly, with white and trembling lips. "And could hear nothing of him," said Vincent, with a little bitterness. "He was not to be heard of at his address." "Where was that?" asked Lady Western again, with the same intent and anxious gaze. Vincent, who was sinking down, down in hopeless circles of jealousy, miserable fierce rage and disappointment, answered, "10 Nameless Street, Piccadilly," without an unnecessary word. Lady Western uttered a little cry of excitement and wonder. She knew nothing of the black abyss into which her companion had fallen any more than she knew the splendid heights to which her favour had raised him; but the sound of her own voice recalled her to herself. She turned away from Vincent and pulled the bell which was within her reach--pulled it once and again with a nervous twitch, and entangled her bracelet in the bell-pull, so that she had to bend over to unfasten it. Vincent sat gloomily by and looked on, without offering any assistance. He knew it was to hide her troubled face and gain a moment to compose herself; but he was scarcely prepared for her total avoidance of the subject when she next spoke. "They are always so late of giving us tea," she said, rising from her chair, and going up to Miss Wodehouse: "I can see you have finished your pattern; let me see how it looks. That is pretty; but I think it is too elaborate. How many things has Mary done for this bazaar, Mr. Wentworth?--and do tell us when is it to be?"