He looked at her more intently. He himself had been attaching no particular importance to this conversation, but he was suddenly conscious that it was not so with the woman at his side. Her eyes were shining at him, soft and full and sweet; her beautiful bosom was rising and falling quickly; there had come to her something which even he was forced to recognize, that curious and voluptuous abandonment which a woman rarely permits herself, and can never assume. He was a little bewildered. His speech lost for a moment its cold precision. “Your price?” he repeated. “I--I am stupid. I’m afraid I don’t understand.” “Marry me,” she whispered in his ear, “and I will take you a little further into life than you could ever go alone You don’t care for me, of course--but you shall. You don’t understand this world, Wingrave, or how to make the best of it. I do! Let me be your guide!” Wingrave looked at her in grave astonishment. “You are not by any chance--in earnest?” he asked. “You know very well that I am,” she answered swiftly. “And yet you hesitate! What is it that you are afraid of? Don’t you like to give up your liberty? We need not marry unless you choose. That is only a matter of form nowadays at any rate. I have a hundred chaperons to choose from. Society expects strange things from me. It is your companionship I want. Your money is fascinating, of course. I should like to see you spend it, to spend it with both hands. Don’t be afraid that we should be talked about. I am not Lady Ruth! I am Emily, Marchioness of Westchester, and I live and choose my friends as I please; will you be chief amongst them? Hush!” For Wingrave it was providential. The loud chorus which had heralded the upraising of the curtain died away. Melba’s first few notes were floating through the house. Silence was a necessity. The low passion of the music rippled from the stage, through the senses and into the hearts of many of the listeners. But Wingrave listened silent and unmoved. He was even unconscious that the woman by his side was watching him half anxiously every now and then. The curtain descended amidst a thunder of applause. Wingrave turned slowly towards his companion. And then there came a respite--a knock at the door. The Marchioness frowned, but Wingrave was already holding it open. Lady Ruth, followed by an immaculate young guardsman, a relative of her husband, was standing there. “Mr. Wingrave!” she exclaimed softly, with upraised eyebrows, “why have you contrived to render yourself invisible? We thought you were alone, Emily,” she continued, “and took pity on you. And all the time you had a prize.” The Marchioness looked at Lady Ruth, and Lady Ruth looked at the Marchioness. The young guardsman was a little sorry that he had come, but Lady Ruth never turned a hair.