Lady Mary, leaving the countess to Sir Harry Stapleton, Caryll and the others, moved to Hortensia's side for a moment she was at loss what to say, and took refuge in a commonplace. “I have long desired the pleasure of your acquaintance,” said she. “I am honored, madam,” replied Hortensia, with downcast eyes. Then lifting them with almost disconcerting suddenness. “Your ladyship has chosen an odd season in which to gratify this desire with which you honor me.” Lady Mary laughed, as much at the remark as for the benefit of those whose eyes were upon her. She knew there would not be wanting many who would condemn her; but these should be far outnumbered by those who would be lost in admiration of her daring, that she could so fly in the face of public opinion; and she was grateful to Mr. Caryll for having suggested to her a course of such distinction. “I could have chosen no better season,” she replied, “to mark my scorn of evil tongues and backbiters.” Color stained Hortensia's cheek again; gratitude glowed in her eyes. “You are very noble, madam,” she answered with flattering earnestness. “La!” said the Lady Mary. “Is nobility, then, so easily achieved?” And thereafter they talked of inconsequent trifles, until Mr. Caryll moved towards them, and Lady Mary turned aside to speak to the countess. At Mr. Caryll's approach Hortensia's eyes had been lowered again, and she made no offer to address him as he stood before her now, hat under arm, leaning easily upon his amber cane. “Oh, heart of stone!” said he at last. “Am I not yet forgiven?” She misread his meaning--perhaps already the suspicion she now voiced had been in her mind. She looked up at him sharply. “Was it--was it you who fetched the Lady Mary to me?” she inquired. “Lo!” said he. “You have a voice! Now Heaven be praised! I was fearing it was lost for me--that you had made some awful vow never again to rejoice my ears with the music of it.” “You have not answered my question,” she reminded him. “Nor you mine,” said he. “I asked you am I not yet forgiven.” “Forgiven what?” “For being born an impudent, fleering coxcomb--twas that you called me, I think.” She flushed deeply. “If you would win forgiveness, you should not remind me of the offence,” she answered low. “Nay,” he rejoined, “that is to confound forgiveness with forgetfulness. I want you to forgive and yet to remember.” “That were to condone.” “What else? 'Tis nothing less will satisfy me.” “You expect too much,” she answered, with a touch that was almost of sternness. He shrugged and smiled whimsically. “It is my way,” he said apologetically. “Nature has made me expectant, and life, whilst showing me the folly of it, has not yet cured me.” She looked at him, and repeated her earlier question. “Was it at your bidding that Lady Mary came to speak with me?” “Fie!” he cried. “What insinuations do you make against her?” “Insinuations?” “What else? That she should do things at my bidding!”