"You know my motive in this matter, Mr. Hilton, and your own--brutal words could not make it clearer between us than it is now--but what of your daughter, is it fair to her?" The other fumbled for the meaning behind these words. "This is a curious thing for you to say, Lord Lyndwood." "I speak against my own advantage, Mr. Hilton, which lies in this match," he smiled bitterly; "and Gad, I know not why I _do_ speak save that there is no one else to say to you--reflect." Mr. Hilton frowned heavily. "Do you seek to evade the contract pledged between us?" The Earl's voice was stormy as he answered. "This is a sordid enough business, sir; believe me I do not find it pleasant." He checked himself, then flashed out again, haughtily, "I have seen Miss Hilton, and I have seen she is reluctant to become my wife. God in Heaven! do you not understand? What can you offer her? I am not famous for the domestic virtues." Mr. Hilton was quick now to think he saw the intention behind the words. "I am not asking for your reformation, my lord," he answered. "I expect nothing but to see my daughter your wife." "And I," said Rose Lyndwood, "was thinking not of you nor of myself, but of Miss Hilton; is it not possible for you to comprehend that?" The expression of baited anger returned to Mr. Hilton's intent face. "What does this mean?" he asked. "That ye seek to evade what ye have pledged yourself to, my lord?" "Leave the matter, I pray you"--it was almost as if he addressed his servant--"I spoke from a passing impulse, a foolish one." He picked up his hat from the linen cover of the settee; his manner closed the subject. Mr. Hilton, baffled but appeased, was silent, fondling his watch-chain. "Monday will be convenient to me," said Lord Lyndwood. "I shall look to see you then, at my house, about twelve of the clock. My lawyer will be acquainted." "And the betrothal shall be made public at once," assented Mr. Hilton. He glanced up at Rose Lyndwood and was surprised into an exclamation. "What is the matter?" asked the Earl quietly. "You looked so pale, my lord; I thought you were ill." The Earl's heavy lids almost concealed his eyes; he smiled, ignoring both the remark and the speaker. "I shall await you on Monday; now I must no longer trespass on your time--_au revoir_." He bowed, not it seemed to Mr. Hilton, but to some intangible quality in the room, and turned to the door, swinging his gloves. The older man was profuse and respectful in his leave-taking; my lord smiled beyond and above him, remote in an unnatural composure. Mr. Hilton accompanied him down the stairs, not forgoing the moment on the doorstep when the idlers round the green chariot turned agape to see the Earl, to mark his companion and the intimate manner of their parting. My lord was still noticeably pale when he mounted the curricle; as he gathered up the reins he shuddered. The groom sprang to his place behind and the impatient white horses trampled the dust with joy.