"He has always known," the Countess raised her face, "and it doth not touch him; he brushes it from him as a fly off his sleeve. I told him of my father's letter; what did he care?" She clenched her fragile hands in the dove-coloured cushions. "My God, I am sick with hate, or love." Honoria Pryse observed her curiously. Lady Lyndwood's passionate loathing of her lord had always been beyond her understanding; to her own nature strong feeling was impossible. "Did you see Captain Lyndwood to-night?" she asked. "Yes, he is a fool and a virtuous fool, but I swear I think I love him. Oh, Honoria!" her eyes gleamed with an expression akin to insanity. "Do you not think I love him?" "No," answered the maid, "not yet at least, but I think you hate my lord, and I wonder why; if ye had not felt this frenzy against him ye had been able to better hold your own." The Countess did not seem to hear. "How may one touch a man like that--hath he no soul beyond his easy pleasures?" she cried vehemently. "He will not cross swords for Selina Boyle, and he thinks he loves her. I cannot move him to any fury by talk of ruin, always his face hath one expression for me, and no way can I alter it; is there nothing in the world he cares for?" Honoria shrugged her shoulders. "His name, his dignity, I suppose; we have never affected that. You have been very discreet, my lady, and he knows you cannot be otherwise and keep the position you paid so highly for." A curious look passed over the Countess's face. "His name!" she repeated; then she laughed stupidly and shivered. "Well, we are ruined; what is before me?" "You are far enough from ruin," answered the maid calmly. "Mr. Hilton stands firm enough, and my lord's position is not so easily overturned." The Countess rose with sudden energy. "Get to bed, Honoria, I am tired to-night, and meant not what I said," but her passionate face and heated eyes belied her words. "Will you not come also, my lady?" "In a while, yes." The maid had the policy sometimes to submit to the mistress she ruled; with the faintest of sneering smiles she left the room. With quick steps the Countess hurried across the floor, picked up her father's letter and dashed out the candle. Through the heavy curtains fell the first glimmer of the London dawn, but where my lady stood all was dark; she tore the letter to shreds, breathing heavily. "His name," she muttered to herself; "my name also. An insignificant thing like me, my lord, might make you the laughing stock of the town." She paused and peered round the dark mistrustfully. She moved unerringly to where the Earl had left his domino, found it, flung it on the ground and set her high-heeled shoe on it; then laughing and crying together hurried from the room. CHAPTER XI HONORIA INTERVENES