My lord looked over his shoulder and saw Mr. Hilton lingering on the doorstep--he stood up and whispered to the horses. As the chariot sped glittering down the street, one of the loiterers hailed a new-comer: "There goes Lord Lyndwood--driving like the devil!" CHAPTER V THE TRUE LOVE Mrs. Beale stopped her chair and stepped out. "Lord Lyndwood," she said softly, and beckoned him with her fan. The shifting idle crowds of the Mall divided them, but if her voice was lost on the gay summer air (already so laden with whispers and laughter) he saw the gesture and came over to her. Her languishing eyes were reproachful as he kissed her hand. "La! I have seen so little of you! Will you walk on with me?" "Is there need to ask, my dear?" She tossed her head, her cheeks were suffused with colour. As they sauntered side by side under the lime trees her glance searched for rivals to witness and envy. "I am to play Statira to-night." "Who is Roxana?" He smiled down at her dark prettiness. "Do you care?" she pouted. "Not at all." "'Tis Miss Fenton in an ugly red gown from Paris," she informed him; "a hoyden!" Rose Lyndwood looked languidly before him. She touched his black velvet sleeve with scented fingers. "Will you come?" she demanded, her regard full of fire and entreaty. "To-night?" "I am not playing to-morrow." "Then I will come to-night." She flounced her white skirts out of the dust. "Only come if it please you." "Why, it pleases me," smiled Lord Lyndwood. They were nearing St. James's Park. Very pleasantly the evening light glimmered in the fresh leaves of the limes and chestnuts and lay in flakes of gold on the lake, where the white ducks swam. Long pale shadows trailed over the gravel walks and close grass lawns; here and there the red and pink of the hawthorns starred the green. For a little while the actress was silent. When they reached the edge of the water she looked up at her companion; her wide straw hat cast half her face into the shade and the red strings tied at her throat showed off the whiteness of her round chin. "You are going to be married, I am told." "The town knows it," he replied. "At last!" laughed Frances Beale. "Well, I wish you happiness." He turned a glance on her that checked her laughter. "Thank you, my dear," he said. They had paused at the margin of the lake; the gold ripples ran like a pathway from the toe of Mrs. Beale's little shoe to the tall poplars on the opposite bank, through the dark leaves of which the sun blazed, cloudless to its setting. "You are very fortunate," said Mrs. Beale, gazing at the water. "The wealthy Miss Hilton. La, there has been a power of men after her swinging fortune!" "That isn't amusing," answered Rose Lyndwood. "I think, my dear, that you had better leave the subject." "Am I bound to be amusing?" she demanded. He lifted his hat to a passing acquaintance. "'Tis your profession," he replied lazily. She shrugged her shoulders.