"Love you! Of course I love you! But what use--now, any more than before? Do you expect fidelity in a case like ours? We have both outlived the age of romance, and now, of course, I must be doubly cautious not to draw down calumny on my head. Were you free it would be a different matter. But, of course, your wife is a saint, and Keith Athelstone an anchorite. Fraternal affection, when unfettered by fraternity, is so pure and beautiful a thing!" He groans impatiently. "I know what you mean. But she never cared for him; and now he has broken off his projected marriage, and left England." Lady Jean looks up in surprise. "Left England? Are you sure?" "Lauraine said so, and every one is talking of it." "Lauraine told you so! Ah, how beautiful is faith! Did I not tell you that marriage would never be? What reason does he give for breaking it off?" "Oh, the girl says she broke it off because they could not agree about furnishing their drawing-room. She is as larky and perky as ever, and treats the whole thing as a joke. Has got the young Earl of Longleat mad after her now, and I suppose will end in marrying him." "And Keith has--left England," says Lady Jean musingly; "or is that a blind? Where is your saint?" "Lauraine? She is staying with her æsthetic friend in Kensington. No, Jean. With all due respect to your 'cuteness, that won't do. I tell you Lauraine doesn't care two straws for the fellow, though he is madly in love with her. Why, I met him rushing out of the house like a lunatic the day he came to say 'Good-bye.' Never saw a fellow in such a state in my life, and she--she was as cool and cold as possible. Said he was going away to some foreign place or another." "He has not gone!" says Lady Jean tranquilly. "I won't mind an even bet of a cool thou' on that point, Frank. While England holds Lauraine, it will hold Keith Athelstone. Of that I am quite convinced." "I think you mistake her," says Sir Francis coldly. "She is human, and she loves," answers Lady Jean. "Of course she is of a much higher type than ordinary women--cast in a nobler mould, and all that. But still----" She pauses meaningly. Sir Francis moves with sudden impatience. "Why talk of her?" he says. "You know I hate her." "I know nothing of the sort," retorts Lady Jean. "You were very madly in love with her once, and you paid a high enough price for your fancy, and you believe in her still." "One can respect a woman, even if one dislikes her," mutters Sir Francis. Lady Jean's eyes flash fire beneath their lowered lids. What she has forfeited she hates to hear praised as another woman's possession. "I am glad you find her such a paragon of virtue," she sneers. "And it must be a novel sensation for you to--respect--a woman." "It is--rather," he answers in the same tone. "There are not many who give us the chance!"