She did not pity Laurel much. She felt angry with her for her presumption in marrying one so far above her as Mr. Le Roy. And then the folly, the madness of it. She could not understand the mad love that had driven Laurel, step by step, into her terrible position. "Mr. Le Roy is coming. Do not let him suspect anything wrong," said Cyril, hastily. He turned with a smile to meet the handsome, stately gentleman. "Mr. Le Roy, I am Cyril Wentworth," he said, genially. "Permit me to assure you that your wife is quite recovered, and to present you to my wife--Mrs. Wentworth." CHAPTER XXIX. "Married!" said St. Leon to himself, with a start, and a quick glance at Beatrix. He bowed to her gracefully, then hurried to his wife's side. "You are better, Beatrix?" he said, anxiously, and they all saw his passionate heart looking out of the beautiful eyes he bent on her pale and tear-stained face. She clung to him in a sort of nervous terror and fear. "Yes, I am better, thanks to the goodness of Clarice and her mistress," she faltered. "You must thank them for their kindness to me, St. Leon, and take me away." He obeyed her request in a few courteous words, bowed to the party, and led his wife away, outwardly cool and collected, but on fire with jealous pain. "She loves him still! She fainted at the bare sight of him!" he muttered to himself. "My God! why did she marry me, then? Was it for wealth and position?" The bitter doubt tore his heart like a knife. An unconscious coldness grew up in his heart toward her. He placed her silently in the carriage, and, springing in beside her, gave himself up to bitter reflections. The carriage whirled them away to their hotel, and as it rattled over the streets Laurel watched her husband's cold, grave face with wonder. "What is it, St. Leon?" she asked him, slipping her arm timidly in his. "Why do you look so grave?" "I am puzzled," he answered. "Over what, St. Leon?" asked the beautiful girl. "Over your fainting spell," he answered, moodily. "You told me you had ceased to love Cyril Wentworth, but at the bare sight of him you fell like one dead. What am I to think, Beatrix?" It came over her like a flash, that he was jealous of Cyril Wentworth--of Cyril Wentworth, whom she had never beheld until to-day. How she longed for him to know the truth, to tell him that she had never loved mortal man save him whom she called her husband! But it was one of the pains and penalties of her position that she could not confess to St. Leon. He must go on believing that her first pure love had been lavished on another, must go on doubting her, for his looks and words assured her that the first seeds of jealousy had been sown in his heart. Hot tears of pain and humiliation gathered in her eyes and splashed heavily down her pale cheeks. "Oh, St. Leon, you do not, you cannot, believe that I love him still?" she sighed. "Why, then, your agitation at that chance meeting?" he inquired.