Honoria Pryse lay in bed and listened to the rain. All night long it had poured steadily, and now, when the June day had dawned, there was no sign of its cessation. Honoria was always pleased to hear that comfortless beat of the rain when she lay warm and dry herself, just as it pleased her to think over what had happened yesterday and what would in all likelihood happen to-day. She herself had acted prudently to her own advantage, and yet in a way that no one could blame; even the proud Miss Chressham had been glad of her help, and the Earl owed, if he had not given, her thanks. Marius Lyndwood had reason to be grateful to her, and if my lady loathed her for her interference it was not a matter to trouble about. The Countess was too dependent on her maid for Honoria to fear her wrath. It was curious that the Countess had returned so quietly. Honoria could recall neither protest nor complaint, and the burst of passionate invective that she had been waiting to receive the moment they were relieved from the restraint of my lord's cold presence had never come. Honoria was surprised, puzzled also by the curiosity my lady suddenly showed in the matter of the Earl's duel with Sir Francis. It was not to be marvelled at that she was interested in the fact itself, one that might mean a great deal to her, but her questions as to time, place, and weapons seemed to Honoria unusual and purposeless. Sitting up in bed and shaking the yellow curls out of her eyes, she smiled to herself at all of it--at my lady, lying in a sick sleep in the next room; at Miss Chressham, awake certainly and praying for my lord; at the Earl and Sir Francis, meeting under the trees in Hyde Park--and for the sake of a few lines in the paper composed by her in this very room; at Miss Boyle, in a fainting agony, praying also for my lord. Honoria laughed aloud, yawned, and got out of bed. As she dressed she wondered, with a sense of amusement, and perhaps a little anxiety, what would happen next. If they brought my lord home, shot through the heart; if Mr. Hilton failed; if they were sold up in a downfall that would be the talk of London--what would become of my lady and herself? Her mouth and eyes hardened as she stared at herself in the mirror. Well, suppose my lord shot Sir Francis? She shrugged her shoulders, opened the shutters and looked out over London. The grey clouds were beginning to break, a light that was between gold and silver glimmered over the wet roofs. The rain was ceasing. It was about eight; the duel must be over now. The Countess would surely be awake. Honoria was surprised that she had not been roused by her in the night--that she should still be sleeping on such a morning as this. After all, my lord's life or death meant something to her. Honoria adjusted her muslin mob, her pink ribbons, her buckle shoes--she was always neat, though she served a slovenly mistress--and opened the door that led into the Countess's bedchamber.