“He is worse,” said the marchioness with conviction; “he is a fool. Oh, if I had only sent the announcement to the papers last night; then they could neither of them have backed out of it.” “What does Lady Victoria say?” inquired her friend, cautiously. “She pretends to be perfectly indifferent. She treats the affair as if it were more my concern than hers. That is what is so hard. If she only took a proper interest in her own position, I should not be afraid; but when I have to deal with a man who says he doesn’t want to marry my daughter, and a daughter who says she doesn’t want to marry him, what am I, as a mother, to do?” She gazed plaintively at Despencer, who considerately shook his head. “It is a difficult position, certainly, but I don’t despair,” he remarked, encouragingly. “I have the very greatest confidence in you, marchioness. I shall be quite interested to see how you get on.” “Don’t be so heartless and unfeeling! I consider this is as much your business as mine. You helped to bring about the engagement, and now you ought to support me in holding this man to his word.” “Well, if you are going to bring an action, I shall be delighted to give evidence, but I don’t see what else I can do.” He paused a moment, and then asked, in a different tone: “Have you any idea of the cause of this sudden change? I thought everything was going so smoothly last night.” The marchioness gave an emphatic nod. “That is just what I want to know. I suspect that it has something to do with that scene in the picture-gallery, and I am determined to get at the truth about it.” “Really!” Despencer regarded her with an amused smile. “Do you know, I quite envy you. You are so energetic, and so hopeful.” “You mean by that, I suppose, that you don’t think I shall succeed?” He shrugged his shoulders with bland deprecation. “Well, I can only say that in the course of my experience I have several times tried to get at the truth where a man and a woman were concerned, and _I_ never succeeded. You may be more fortunate.” The marchioness darted a suspicious look at him. “One thing I mean to know anyway, and that is, who were behind that curtain.” Despencer stole a glance at her sideways. “There I think you are unwise. It is always so much better _not_ to know who are behind the curtain.” The marchioness sat up and frowned in earnest. “That shows that you think it was my husband and Belle Yorke. Mr. Despencer, I can see that there is some connection between those two, and that you know all about it.” Despencer smiled pleasantly, with the satisfaction of a general who sees the enemy march straight into the ambush he has prepared. He could even afford to play with his victim. “Oh, my dear marchioness, what do you take me for?” he returned, with an insincerity not intended to deceive. “Am I a necromancer? Am I the author of ‘Who’s Who’?”