This letter finds Lauraine in the lonely splendour of Falcon's Chase. She reads it and a little pang of bitterness shoots through her heart. But gradually it subsides, and gives way to softer emotions. "So Etwynde's pride had to give way at last," she says to herself, folding up the letter, and half inclined to accept its invitation. "Ah, how great a lord is love!" Lauraine has been almost glad of the entire peace and quiet of the Chase since her guests have left it. There had been nothing but noise and excitement in it then. The Lady Jean had come thither radiant in novelties from Worth, and in highest spirits at the success of some new and gigantic speculation of "Jo's," which promised her unlimited extravagances for the season. She had been the life and soul of the party, had organized endless amusements indoors and out, and had, in fact, made herself useful to Lauraine, enchanting to Sir Francis, and popular with every one in the house. That infatuation of her husband's was still unsuspected by Lauraine. She neither noticed his devotion nor heard the hundred-and-one comments upon it that were uttered often enough, even in her presence. They were old friends--had been friends so long, it never occurred to her that there was anything more between them. She was not acquainted with the numerous changes that society can ring out of the little simple air it calls "Platonics." She had felt grateful to Lady Jean for taking so much trouble off her own hands, for the energy and invention which had organized and carried out so much that was entertaining. It never occurred to her that her husband might be drawing comparisons between her and his friend, and those comparisons infinitely to the advantage of the latter. In accordance with her resolution, she had set herself to work to please and study him in every way, but now he no longer cared for either. He rather seemed to avoid her as much as possible, and her very gentleness and patience served to irritate him. Her mother had been there with the rest of their guests, and her eyes had noticed with much disquietude what Lauraine never even seemed to see. It made her seriously uneasy, and in a measure irritated her against her daughter's stupidity. "She has lost him by her own silliness, of course," she would say to herself. "Just as if a man wouldn't get bored with nothing but cold looks and dowdiness, and all the fads and fangles that Lauraine has occupied herself with lately." Which was Mrs. Douglas' method of explaining Lauraine's grief for her child's death, and her friendship with Lady Etwynde. It had been an intense relief to Lauraine when her guests had all departed and she was once more alone. She had tried hard to interest herself in things that used to please him, to occupy her mind and thoughts; but the efforts seemed to grow more and more wearisome. The mind and body was at variance.