It is a cold afternoon in February, and it is Lady Etwynde's "day," but the æsthetes are deserting her now. Her marriage is fixed for the end of the month. It is to be very quiet, and Lauraine has written to say she cannot come to it; her health is so delicate, that all excitement and fatigue are forbidden. But the real truth is, that Sir Francis has developed a new system of tyranny, framed in by every species of insulting suspicion, and has ordered Lauraine to remain at Falcon's Chase, and declared she shall not even go up to London for the season. It is childish, it is cowardly, and it is unreasonable, and he knows it is all these; but he is infuriated with her, and savage at the failure of his schemes, and this is the only sort of revenge that he can think of at present. He himself is in Paris, with all the gaieties and amusements of the season awaiting his selection, but chafing inwardly and fiercely at Lady Jean's strange conduct, and complete avoidance of himself. Of course she goes nowhere--her deep mourning compels retirement--but she has a small circle of friends who come to her afternoons in her pretty rooms in the Rue Victoire, and Sir Francis knows this, and knows that he is always excluded, and the fact makes him more irritable, more bitter against his wife, and more impatient of seeing his mistress than he has ever been since they parted at the Chase. "How long am I to wait?" he wonders impatiently. "What can be her meaning?" As yet neither of these questions seemed destined to be answered. "I know there is something," persists Mrs. Douglas, drawing near to the fire in the pretty artistic drawing-room, and dropping her voice confidentially. "It looks so odd, and Sir Francis is never with her now. Do tell me, Lady Etwynde, was there anything--anything wrong--when you were down there at Christmas?" "I think Lauraine is most unhappy," says Lady Etwynde sorrowfully; "and I think her marriage was a great mistake. I often heard you congratulating yourself and her--on its brilliance, Mrs. Douglas; but I think, could you see behind the scenes and look into your daughter's breaking heart, you would not feel quite so proud, or so satisfied respecting it." Mrs. Douglas looks at her annoyed and impatient. "If she is unhappy it must be her own fault. She had everything that could make a woman happy, and her husband was devoted to her. If she has lost his affection, it is by her own imprudence and folly. I warned her long ago how it would be." "Perhaps your warning came too late. Most warnings do," says Lady Etwynde coldly. "But a loveless marriage to a girl of Lauraine's disposition and nature was a dangerous experiment. You ought to have let her marry Keith Athelstone."