How did she dare, that guilty and audacious woman, to assume a dress that symbolized purity and humility? Lord Vincent lolled in the other armchair on the opposite side of the table, and from under his languid and half-tipsy eyelids cast passionate glances upon her. Mrs. Macdonald had withdrawn her chair from the table and nearer the fire, and had fallen asleep, or complacently affected to do so; for Mrs. MacDonald was the soul of complacency. Mrs. Dugald declared that she was a love of an old lady. "What a night it is outside! It is good to be here," said Faustina, taking a bunch of ripe grapes and turning towards the fire. "Yes, my angel," answered the viscount drowsily, regarding her from under his eyelids. "What a bore it is!" "What is a bore?" inquired Faustina, putting a ripe grape between her plump lips. "That we are not married, my sweet." "Eh bien! we soon shall be." "Then why do you keep me at such a distance, my angel?" "Ah, bah! think of something else!" The viscount poured out a bumper of rich port and raised it to his lips. "Put that wine down, Malcolm, you have had too much already." He obeyed her and set the glass untasted on the board. "That's a duck; now you shall have some grapes," she said, and, with pretty, childish grace, she began to pick the ripest grapes from her bunch and to put them one by one into the noble noodle's mouth. "It is nice to be here, is it not, mon ami?" she smilingly asked. "Yes, sweet angel!" he sighed languishingly. "And when one thinks of the black dark and sharp cold and deep snow outside, and of travelers losing their way, and getting buried in the drifts and freezing to death, one feels so happy and comfortable in this warm, light room, eating fruit and drinking wine." "Yes, sweet angel! but you won't let me have any more wine," said the viscount drowsily. "You have had more than enough," she smiled, putting a ripe grape between his gaping lips. "Just as you say, sweet love! You know I am your slave. You do with me as you like," he answered stupidly. "Now," said Faustina, her thoughts still running on the contrast between the storm without and the comfort within, "what in this world would tempt one to leave the house on such a night as this? "Nothing in the world, sweet love!" "Malcolm, I do not think I would go out to-night, even in a close carriage, for a thousand pounds." "No, my angel, nor for ten thousand pounds should you go." "I like to think of the people that are out in the cold, though. It doubles my enjoyment," she said, as she put another fine grape in his mouth. "Yes, sweet love!" he answered drowsily, closing his fingers on her hand and drawing her forcibly towards him. "Ah! stop!" she exclaimed, under her breath, and directing his attention to Mrs. MacDonald, who sat with her eyes closed in the easy-chair by the chimney corner. "She is asleep," said the viscount, in a hoarse whisper. "No, no! you are not certain!" whispered Faustina.