There is a little stir at the other end of the room. Some one is going to recite--a French count, who is a friend of Sir Francis'. The elderly colonel is a little deaf. He murmurs an apology, and moves down the long suite of rooms. Keith comes quietly forward, and drops into the vacant chair. For the first time Lauraine looks at him. With one rapid, comprehensive glance, she takes in the change in his face--the dark shadows under those heavy lashes, the weariness upon the brow, the stern sadness of the mouth. Pity, sympathy, grief--all well up in her heart and speak in her glance, but her lips are schooled to rigid silence. She dares not seem to notice these signs of suffering. "If he would only leave me--if he would only be wise!" she thinks, with a sudden passionate dread. "I could bear that, but to go on like this is madness." He speaks at last. "London grows unbearably hot. I suppose you will soon be leaving?" he says. "Yes," answers Lauraine, unconcernedly. "Sir Francis talks of going yachting." "And you accompany him?" "I? Oh, no--I hate the sea. I shall go to Falcon's Chase. I long for a little quiet and rest. I never cared much for fashionable life, you know." "Does Sir Francis make up a large party?" "I believe so. The Salomans, I know, are going; and Marc Vandeleur, his great friend; and the Chesters, and one or two boating men." "The Salomans?" questions Keith, a note of surprise in his voice. "Oh, they go, do they?" "Why not?" asks Lauraine, looking at him in wonder. "They are very fond of the sea--at least, Lady Jean is." "So I suppose," he says in the same peculiar way, marvelling if Lauraine is really the only woman in London Society who does not--know? But Lauraine asks the question in perfect good faith. She does not like Lady Jean, but she knows no harm of her. She detests scandal so utterly that she never listens to boudoir gossip and five o'clock tea talk, if she can possibly help it. To her Lady Jean is simply a fascinating woman of the world--very handsome, very brilliant, very much admired; a little _risquée_, perhaps, but on good terms with the most exclusive of great "sets," and received everywhere. That her husband should admire her, and show his preference openly, in no way disturbs her. To be jealous one must love passionately, and Lauraine has never loved her husband at all. "Why do you speak like that?" she asks him suddenly. "Don't you like Lady Jean?" "Like her? I have scarcely the honour to know her at all," answers Keith. "But if you wish to know the truth, I am unfortunate enough to have formed a prejudice against her. She gives me the idea of being false. I should not like you to make a friend of her."