Against the murky background the face of Rose Lyndwood showed white in between the tumbled grey curls. There was a fixed smile on his colourless lips and a lifeless droop in his weary pose. The brilliants under his chin sparkled in an incongruous fashion. "What is the matter?" he asked. Sir Francis moved. "It startled me," he said. "It is the dawn." The drawer had opened the shutter of the window behind him, and the first ghastly grey light entering had showed him the worn face and fickle eyes of Lord Lyndwood. "Yes, the dawn," repeated my lord. "It is ugly, is it not?" Sir Francis turned away heavily. "Good-night, then, my lord." He glanced back again in a fascinated way at the Earl. "Good-night," answered Rose Lyndwood. He looked so ill in the cold unmerciful light that Sir Francis hesitated. "Good-night," repeated my lord, with a deepening of his unnatural smile. He half roused himself to pour out the wine he had ordered before he had been interrupted. Bewilderment and contempt gathered on the fresh countenance of Sir Francis. He gave the drawer his money impatiently and impatiently flung on his hat. His firm, angry step echoed the length of the dreary coffee-house and the heavy door fell to slowly behind him. My lord did not turn his head nor in any way alter his attitude, though now there was no one to observe him save the man at the window, who yawned miserably at the eastern sky. The Earl drank his wine; he also stared out at the grey gloom gathering strength above the hard dark line of the houses. The lamps burnt so palely in this new insistent light that they became mere yellow specks of misty radiance. The drawer shuffled to the other windows and opened the shutters with a cumbrous slipping of bolts. An ignoble and yet solemn stillness hung over the dreariness. The scattered cards, backgammon boards, the glasses and bottles on the tables, the chairs pushed awry--each of these details became more distinct as the sky glowed into a melancholy faint gold and the blank windows filled with a cold increasing light. My lord finished his wine and leant forward across the table, supporting his head by a hand thrust into his pomaded hair. The splendid dress he wore and his bright ornaments glimmered softly in contrast with his lifeless face. Presently the hush was rudely disturbed by the rumble of the market carts coming in to Covent Garden--the sound of the wheels over the cobbles, the clatter of the harness. Lord Lyndwood rose and stepped to the window. Slowly he set it open and looked out. A waggon laden with country flowers was going past, and the clear early air was fresh with the perfume of the masses of blooms that lay close pressed in the wicker baskets. My lord watched these carts go by until the sun was above the chimney-pots and shining down the narrow street. CHAPTER VI MARIUS ENTANGLED "Where is Rose?" asked Miss Chressham anxiously.