“No, I was not in love with my husband, he was twenty years older than I. When I was eighteen I was very much in love with a young fellow who used to come to play croquet at our place. But my parents wouldn't hear of it. I was not at all strong when I was a girl; they said I wouldn't live, so I didn't care what became of me. Lord Seveley admired me; it was a very good match, I was anxious to get away from home, so I married him. You are quite wrong in supposing I treated him badly.” “Forgive me, don't say any more about that.” “We had rows, it is true; he said horrible things about my mother, and I wouldn't stand that, of course.” “What things?” “Oh, I can't tell you--no matter. Once I said that I wouldn't have married him only I thought I was going to die. He never forgave me that. It was, I admit, a foolish thing to say.” At that moment the curtain came down, and the young men moved out of the stalls. “There are two men I know,” she said, fixing her glass. “Do you see them? The elder of the two is Harding, the novelist, the other is Mr. Fletcher, an Irishman.” “I know Fletcher--or, rather, I know of him. His father was a shopkeeper in Gort, the nearest town to Mount Rorke Castle.” “He is a journalist, isn't he? I hear he is doing pretty well.” “In London, I know, you associate with that class, but in Ireland we wouldn't think of knowing them.” “I thought you were more liberal-minded than that. If they come up here, what shall I do? I mustn't introduce you?” “I don't mind being introduced. I should like to know Harding.” “I can't introduce you to Harding and not to his friend.” “I don't mind being introduced to Fletcher; I'll bow and slink off to smoke a cigarette. Is it true what they say about him, that he is irresistible, that no woman can resist him? I don't think he is good-looking--a good figure, that's all.” “He has the most lovely hands and teeth.” “I see; perhaps you are in love with him?” A knock came at the door; the young men entered. Lady Seveley introduced them to Frank; he bowed coldly, and addressed Harding. But Lady Seveley said: “O Mr. Harding, I want to speak to you about your last novel; I have just finished reading it.” “What do you think of this piece?” Fletcher asked Escott, in a hesitating and conciliatory manner. “I am afraid he will not be able to tell you; he hasn't ceased talking since we came into the theatre.” “I should have done the same had I been in his place.”