Often and often, after an exhausting evening in the House, he had come to her at Albert Gate and cast himself wearily upon the blue sofa in her own cosy boudoir, while she, sitting at his side, had tenderly smoothed his brow. It was in those quiet hours that he had made her his confidante. She referred to those occasions, and asked him whether he believed her any less trustworthy now. "No, not at all, Claudia," he answered, speaking mechanically. "You cannot understand. The secret is mine--the secret of an incident of my past." She was silent. His words were surprising. She thought that she was aware of all his past--even of follies perpetrated when he was sowing his wild oats; but it appeared that there was one incident, the incident now troubling him, which he had always carefully concealed from her. "If the secret so closely concerns yourself," she said at last, "surely I am the person who may know." "No," he replied briefly. "But you have told me many other things of a delicate nature concerning yourself--why may I not know this, and help you to bear your trouble?" she asked coaxingly. "However much you may despise me for my frivolity and vanity, you surely do not think me capable of betraying your confidence, do you?" "No," he replied. "You have never betrayed any secret I have told you, Claudia, and I have no reason to suppose you would do so now. But this matter concerns myself--only myself." "And you will tell me absolutely nothing?" "I--I cannot," he declared brokenly. A long silence again fell between the pair whose names had so long been coupled by the gossips. They certainly looked well suited to each other--he, tall, dark-faced, and undoubtedly handsome; she, brilliant and beautiful. "Dudley, dear," she murmured after a pause, placing her hand tenderly upon his arm, "you are certainly not yourself to-night. You are in trouble over some small matter which your own apprehensions have unduly exaggerated. Probably you've been working too hard, or perhaps you've made a long speech to-day--have you?" "I spoke this afternoon," he replied. The tone of his voice was unusually harsh. "You want a little brightness and relaxation. Let us go on to the Duchess's together, and we will waltz--perhaps for the last time." Those words fell upon his ears with a terrible significance. Yes, it would be for the last time. In his gloomy state of mind her suggestion commended itself to him. What matter if people gossiped about them? They might surely enjoy one last evening in each other's society. And how many waltzes they had had together during the past two seasons! Yet this was to be the last--actually the last. She saw his indecision, and hastened to strengthen her argument.