only a velvet-covered tea-table between himself & the most popular woman in London. Certainly, the charm of her face, her tone, her gesture, was irresistible. Her ease was so engaging, there was such a pretty spice of freedom in her speech & manner, her coquetry was so artless & original, that Jack had surely succumbed if he had not seen in this fascinating Lady Breton the destroyer of his friend’s happiness. Ten minutes later, after another stray man, a distant relative of Lord Breton’s, had made his appearance in dinner-array, Egerton had the whitest of hands lying on his coat-sleeve & was leading his hostess to the dining-room, in a very delightful frame of mind. The parti quarré was kept alive, during the elaborate courses of the dinner, by Lady Breton’s vivacity; & as she employed herself in drawing Jack out (Jack was a clever talker) the two kept a constant flow of words circulating. Every moment, as he watched her & heard her voice, the fascination & the loathing increased together. In truth, Georgie had laid herself out to conquer this clever friend of Guy’s; & she in part succeeded. When at last she rose, with her rich draperies falling about her & a deeper flush on her cheek, & swept out of the room, a dullness fell on the three men which Lord Breton’s sublimity was not likely to relieve. Jack was glad when the time which etiquette orders to be devoted to nuts & wine (Lord Breton’s wine was by no means contemptible) was over, & the gentlemen went to the drawing-room to join Georgie; nor was his pleasure impaired by the fact that Lord Breton soon challenged his other guest to a game of billiards. “Let us stay here, Mr. Egerton,” said Georgie, with a smile. “It always makes my head ache to see Lord Breton play billiards. You don’t mind staying?” Jack protested. “Ah! I see you are like all other men—you always flatter.” “How can we help it when there is so much to flatter?” “That is a doubtful compliment, but I will take it at its best, as one must everything in this life. Do you take tea, Mr. Egerton?” Jack had an old-maid’s passion for the fragrant brew, & watched with no small enjoyment the quick movements of Georgie’s pretty hand as she filled & sweetened his cup. “There! You have got to pay for my services by getting up to fetch it, since you will plant yourself at the other end of the room,” she said, laughing, as she handed it to him. “Thanks. I find that English tea is a different thing from Roman tea,” said Jack, leaning back luxuriously, so that he could watch her as she sat opposite, in a charming négligeé attitude, as easy as his own. “But one doesn’t go to Rome for tea! At least, I believe not,” she said, taking up her cup. “What does one go to Rome for?” returned Jack; “as I sit here, in this charming drawing-room, with London on every side, I wonder how anyone can care to go abroad?” “Really,” said Georgie, smiling, “your words have a double entendre. Is it my drawing-room, Mr. Egerton, or London that makes it hard to go abroad?” “To those who have the happiness of knowing you, I should say—both.” “Unanswerable! Compliments always are—But do tell me, Mr. Egerton, if you have seen my cousin Guy—Mr. Hastings, lately?” She said it lightly, easily, in the tone she had used to rally & amuse him a moment before; there was no change in voice, or manner. Jack was disagreeably startled out of his train of lazy enjoyment; in the charm of her presence he had nearly forgotten his loyalty to Guy, but the lightness of her tone as she named him, brought all the horror jarringly back. He changed in a moment from the mere drawing room lounger, with a flattering repartee for every remark, into the stout friend & the “good hater.” He was our old Jack Egerton again. For a moment he did not answer her; & as she appeared absorbed in the contemplation of the fan which she was opening & furling, perhaps she did not see the angry flash in his honest gray eyes. When he spoke she did look up, & with undisguised astonishment in her pretty face. “I think, Lady Breton,” said Jack, sternly, “that you should be able to answer your own question.” “What can you mean, Mr. Egerton? Why do you speak in that solemn oracular manner?” “Excuse me, Lady Breton,” returned Jack; “I cannot speak in any other tone of my friend!” “Than the solemn & oracular?” said Georgie, mischievously. “You must pardon me,” Egerton answered gravely,” If I ask you not to speak so lightly on a subject which … which …” “Pray go on, Mr. Egerton,” she said, in a low, taunting voice; & it urged him on, before he knew it, to utter the truth. “I believe,” he returned quickly, “that we are speaking at cross-purposes, but since you give me permission I will go on & tell you frankly that I cannot sit still and listen to such mere trifling with his name from the woman who has ruined Guy Hastings’ life.” Her colour deepened, but her voice was quite controlled as she said, “I do not think I gave you permission to insult me.” “Nor did I mean to insult you, Lady Breton; if I have, order me out of your drawing-room at once—but I must speak the truth.” “Since when have you developped this virtue, Mr. Egerton? Well—” she set her lips slightly, “go on. I will listen to the truth.” “You have heard what I said,” Jack answered, coldly. “Let me see”—Jack noticed that she composed herself by an effort—“that I had ruined Guy—Mr. Hastings’ life.” “As you must ruin the life of any man who has the misfortune to love you. You know your power.” “Well—suppose I do. Did you come from Rome to tell me this, Mr. Egerton?” she said, bitterly. “No. And I see that I shall repent having told you,” said Jack. “Let us talk of something else.” “Not at all! Since you broached the subject, it shall be your penalty to go on with it as long as I choose.” “Are you so unused to the truth, Lady Breton, that even such harsh truths as these are acceptable?” “Perhaps.” She paused, playing with her fan; then, suddenly, flashing one of her superb looks at him; “How you despise me!” she said. “You think I cared nothing for—for him?” “I cannot think that if you had cared for him, you would have thrown him over.” “Ah—you know nothing of women!” “I believe” said Jack, very low, “I know too much of them.” “And you despise them all, do you not?” she cried. “Yet—I have a heart.” “My friend did not find it so,” said Jack, pitilessly. Her eyes flashed; & she bit her lip (the blood had fled from her whole face) before she could answer. “How do you know that you are not wronging me?” “If I am wronging you, why is my friend’s life cursed?” he exclaimed. “No, Lady Breton! The wrong is on your side, & when I think of him, & of what he might have been, I cannot help telling you so.” Her agitation had increased perceptibly, & she rose here, as if to find a vent for it in the sudden movement. Jack could not help thinking how her pallour altered her. There ran through his head, half unconsciously, the wonderful words that describe Beatrix Esmond when she finds her guilt discovered: “The roses had shuddered out of her cheeks; she looked quite old.” He waited for Georgie to speak. “What he might have been,” she repeated slowly. “What have I done? What have I done?” “You have very nearly broken his heart.” She gave a little cry, & put her hand against her breast. “Don’t! Don’t!” she said, wildly. “I did love him, I did care—I believe my heart is nearly broken too!” She tried to steady her voice, & went on hurriedly. “I was young & silly & ambitious. I fancied I didn’t care, but I did—did. I have suffered too, & the more bitterly because what you say is true. I have wronged him!” She sank down on a chair, hiding her face in her hands, & Jack, who had not expected this passionate outburst, was not a little appalled by what he had brought about. But it was too late now to undo it; Georgie was thoroughly shaken out [of] her habitual artificial composure. The mask had fallen off, & oh, how sadly, sadly human were the features behind it! “And you,” she went on, “are the first who has dared to tell me what I have felt so long! I could almost thank you—” She paused once more, & Jack knew that her tears were falling, though she screened her face with one lifted hand. “Instead of that,” he said, “you must forgive my frankness—my impertinence, rather—in speaking to you in this way.” “No—no. I think I feel better for it,” she almost whispered. “But one thing more. Does he—does he think of me as you do?” “Do not ask me,” said Jack, gently. “I think of you with nothing but pity.” “And he—he despises me? He thinks I do not care for him? Oh—it will break my heart. And yet,” she went on, with a moan, “what else have I deserved? Oh, my folly, my folly! But you believe I do love him? You see how wretched, how—” She did not notice, that, as she spoke, leaning toward Jack with her hand half outstretched, Lord Breton’s voice was sounding near the door; but Jack did. “Yes,” he said, composedly, taking up an album, “these photographs are charming. Have you seen the last of the Princess of Wales?” Georgie’s tact would
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