'We have been watched, and Forestfield knows all!' Those words seemed to have crept into Lady Forestfield's heart, deadening its action and stupefying her brain. She sat perfectly motionless until just before the curtain fell, then rose, accompanied by the duchess and attended by the two gentlemen who had subsequently come into the box, and sought her carriage. While waiting in the crush-room, in reply to a question put, she scarcely knew by whom, she pleaded a severe headache, and excused herself from seeing any more of her friends that night. The after-theatre suppers at Lady Forestfield's house in Seamore-place were renowned, and the Duchess of Melrose, who had come to that sensible time of life when eating is regarded as something more than the mere swallowing of food, and both the attendant sprites who wanted to fill up a couple of hours before going to Pratt's, were disappointed; but Lady Forestfield's look was so dazed and colourless and helpless, that it was evident that her plea was no pretence, and the duchess took advantage of an opportunity to ask her in a whisper if anything had happened. 'Nothing,' she replied in a flat tuneless tone, 'nothing.' 'I thought, my dear, from your looks, that a hawk might have dropped down into the dovecot; but you are very young and very sensitive, my poor child; in a few years you will learn to treat any little temporary storms with proper unconcern.' And then the carriages were signalled, and the ladies took their departure. On reaching home, Lady Forestfield, with a passing glance into the dining-room, where the table was set out for supper, went straight to her room, and dismissing her maid as soon as possible, threw herself in her peignoir into a low chair near the window overlooking the Park, and gave herself up to thought.