Lady Jean is attired in some wonderful combination of deep ruby and old gold that suits her dark beauty to perfection. Lauraine gazes at her with a sort of wonder. It has never struck her before that the woman is so marvellously handsome. They pass on with the rest of the crowd after a few words. In one of the rooms a great singer is singing. Lauraine stands and listens. Some one comes up to her and offers his hand. She just glances up and smiles as she takes it. Neither of them speaks. Only two eager blue eyes take in every detail of her dress and appearance, and give so glad a welcome in their glance that perhaps it is as well she does not see it. The song is over. The crowd move about. Keith Athelstone bends close to Lauraine. "Let me find you a seat," he says. "These rooms are stifling." Lauraine nods and takes his arm. Her husband has gone back to the staircase and--Lady Jean. "I hardly know any one here," she says at last. "It is the first time I have come to the house." "Is it?" answers Keith, rather indifferently. "There are heaps of big swells here, I believe. Pity Mrs. Bradshaw Woollffe can't be among them. How delighted she would be!" "How long do you stay with her?" asked Lauraine. "I scarcely know. I am looking out for a set of rooms; but I haven't found anything I like yet." "Are you so hard to please?" "I don't think so. But I must have lots of room and something green to look at. I wonder if I dare ask your assistance in the furnishing line. I'm afraid I shall make an awful muddle of it." Lauraine laughs. "Are you going in for the æsthetic style--peacock-blue, and sage-green and yellow? Oh, yes--I shall be delighted to help you. We'll drive to Morris's and select things together." _Together_! His heart gives a quick throb as he hears that word. He wonders whether she has forgotten. He feels a little impatient of this calm friendliness with which she always treats him. She ignores the past so utterly that at times he feels impelled to say or do something desperate, if only to awaken her from that calm, and know that she can feel still. The attraction she had had for him is potent as ever. All his rage and indignation had not killed it--the barrier in his path seemed but to rouse it to fresh life when they met again. No woman in the world was to him what Lauraine was. No woman ever would be, he felt assured. Had he been wise he would have shunned her presence so long as he knew it could exercise its old potent witchery. But who is wise that loves? "She is quite safe," he would tell himself restlessly. "And for myself--if it hurts, it is my own fault. I must see her sometimes." He had grown to look upon Lauraine as martyred to her mother's selfishness. He knew she had never cared for her husband. He saw that even in this short space of time they were drifting slowly--surely apart.