“Of course I will keep away from the child’s apartments until she is quite well, for I am horribly afraid of that fever,” she said. “But I am heartily tired of the life here, and long to be at home, where I can have more of your society, Norman. Indeed, you ought not to blame me for amusing myself with other men, when you have been spending half of your time at Verelands with your mother and Little Sweetheart.” “Come back with me, and you shall not have to complain of any lack of my society,” he replied, gayly; and she agreed to go that very day. The ladies at the hotel were heartily glad to hear of her going, but Lord Stuart declared that he was _désolé_. “I shall haunt Verelands,” he declared. “Oh, pray do not threaten anything so ghostly. I give you leave to call in the orthodox fashion,” she replied, carelessly. In truth, she did not care in the least whether she ever saw the infatuated nobleman again. He had served her purpose--helped her to punish Norman--and now she was ready to fling him aside like a worn-out glove. But her grace and beauty, her coquettish wiles, had thrown a glamour over the mature man’s heart. He believed that she was weary of her boy-husband; he pitied her and despised Norman de Vere. What right had that boy to appropriate this peerless creature? So strong was his passion that he began to indulge dreams of winning her for his own--honorably, of course. Lord Stuart was the soul of honor. But what was there to hinder a divorce? She no longer loved that smooth-faced boy, and he fancied that she had shown signs that she cared for himself. Carried away by an irresistible spell, the nobleman thought of no rights but his own. The withdrawal of Camille’s constant presence from the hotel almost made him frantic. He began to make daily calls at Verelands, but these brief glimpses of her did not satisfy his craving. It occurred to him one day that it would be romantic to send her flowers daily--flowers whose delicate petals should hide dainty notes with love verses written within them. Camille had great gardens full of flowers, but that did not matter to Lord Stuart. Perhaps one flower from his hand would be dearer than all the rest. He was mad enough to think so. He spent a whole afternoon with the poets choosing an appropriate verse to accompany the bouquet of deep-red roses he had selected. At the witching hour of twilight he dispatched his valet, a handsome, saturnine-looking fellow, with the fragrant offering. Camille was walking that twilight hour by the river which skirted the lawn at Verelands. She had left the house in a rage because her husband had excused himself for an hour that he might spend some time with the little invalid in his mother’s room.