He hastened into the study as he spoke, and began putting things straight there with a deft and rapid hand. In an incredibly short time, the papers were all in order, locked up in their various receptacles, and the table was cleared. "Good-bye, my love," said he, returning to the front room. "Do you not take anything to eat?" asked Blanche, in short and sullen tones, which he was in too great a hurry to notice. "No: or I should lose the train." He caught her to him. Blanche turned her face away. "You silly child! you are cross with me for leaving you. My dear, believe me, _I could not help it_. Charley is coming up to dine with you this evening." Leaving his kisses on her lips, but getting none in return, Lord Level went out to the cab. As it drove away, there came up to the door a railway luggage van. The lost box had arrived from Paris. Timms knelt down with extra fervour that night to offer up her thanksgivings. * * * * * Lord Level had snatched a moment to look in upon me, and ask me to dine with Blanche that evening. "She is not pleased at being left alone," he said; "but I am obliged to run down to Marshdale. And, Charley, she saw something about Tom in the paper this morning: I had to turn it off in the best way I could: so be cautious if she mentions it to you." I had meant to look again after Tom Heriot that evening, but could not refuse this. Blanche was unusually silent throughout dinner. "Is anything the matter, Blanche?" I asked her, when we were in the drawing-room. "A great deal is the matter," she replied resentfully. "I am not going to put up with it." "Put up with what?" "Oh--with Lord Level. With his--his deceit. But I can't tell you now, Charles: I shall speak to himself first." I laughed. "More jealousy cropping up! What has he done now, Blanche?" "What has he gone to Marshdale for?" retorted Blanche, her cheeks flaming. "And what did he go to Pisa for when we were last in Paris?" continued she, without any pause. "He _did_ go. It was in December; and he was away ten days." "Well,' I suppose some matter or other called him there," I said. "As to Marshdale--it is his place; his home. Why should this annoy you, Blanche? A man cannot carry his wife with him everywhere." "_I_ know," she said, catching up her fan, and beginning to use it sharply. "I know more than you do, Charles. More than he thinks for--a great deal more." "It strikes me, my dear, that you are doing your best to estrange your husband from you--if you speak to him as you are speaking now. That will not enhance your own happiness, Blanche." "The fault is his," she cried, turning her hot face defiantly upon me. "It may be. I don't think so." "He does not care for me _at all_. He cares for--for--somebody else."