But the baron did not. For him, it may be presumed, his club had charms. Mr. Stistick, however, did do so; he had to hand Mrs. Stistick down from that elysium which she had so exquisitely graced. He did hand her down; and then for five minutes George Bertram found himself once more alone with Caroline Waddington. "Good-night, Lady Harcourt," he said, again essaying to take her hand. This and his other customary greeting was all that he had yet spoken to her. "Good-night, Mr. Bertram." At last her voice faltered, at last her eye fell to the ground, at last her hand trembled. Had she stood firm through this trial all might have been well; but though she could bear herself right manfully before stranger eyes, she could not alone support his gaze; one touch of tenderness, one sign of weakness was enough--and that touch was there, that sign she gave. "We are cousins still, are we not?" said he. "Yes, we are cousins--I suppose so." "And as cousins we need not hate each other?" "Hate each other!" and she shuddered as she spoke; "oh, no, I hope there is no hatred!" He stood there silent for a moment, looking, not at her, but at the costly ornaments which stood at the foot of the huge pier-glass over the fireplace. Why did he not go now? why did he stand there silent and thoughtful? why--why was he so cruel to her? "I hope you are happy, Lady Harcourt," at last he said. There was almost a savage sternness in her face as she made an effort to suppress her feelings. "Thank you--yes," she said; and then she added, "I never was a believer in much happiness." And yet he did not go. "We have met now," he said, after another pause. "Yes, we have met now;" and she even attempted to smile as she answered him. "And we need not be strangers?" Then there was again a pause; for at first she had no answer ready. "Is it needful that we should be strangers?" he asked. "I suppose not; no; not if Sir Henry wishes it otherwise." And then he put out his hand, and wishing her good-night a second time, he went. For the next hour, Lady Harcourt sat there looking at the smouldering fire. "Quos Deus vult perdere, prius dementat." Not in such language, but with some such thought, did she pass judgment on the wretched folly of her husband. CHAPTER IV. MRS. MADDEN'S BALL. Two days after the dinner, George Bertram called in Eaton Square and saw Lady Harcourt; but, as it happened, she was not alone. Their interview on this occasion was not in any great degree embarrassing to either of them. He did not stay long; and as strangers were present, he was able to talk freely on indifferent subjects. Lady Harcourt probably did not talk much, but she looked as though she did.