part did not suit, she varied it according to her own fancy. She was

not a young woman now--that is to say, she was on the wrong side of thirty; but she was handsome and dashing-looking, and had a host of admirers, and did pretty much as she liked with her husband, who was a dark Jewish-looking man, rarely seen in her drawing-rooms, but known to have carried many wonderful speculations to a successful issue, and to have so much money that even her wildest extravagances could be indulged without fear of consequences.

Lady Jean was on the very highest pinnacle of social success at present, and the novelty amused her, though the fact of being constantly _en grande tenue_ was rather a bore, and there was a dash of Bohemianism in her character, due to her Irish blood, which would have vent occasionally. The said element, however, was kept carefully out of sight of the very great and exclusive personages who received her as one of themselves. She slipped into her two characters as occasion demanded, and played them so skilfully that her respective audiences applauded each with rapture, and took each as the real thing.

Those outside that magic pale of "exclusiveness" sighed enviously as they saw her leave their ranks from time to time, and soar upwards to that purer and rarer stratum of the social atmosphere which their lungs were deemed unfit to breathe. "We are quite as good as she," they would murmur discontentedly.

And so they doubtless were, only they had not learnt her secret--the secret of keeping on good terms with Society, and yet indulging in a hundred little frolicsome escapades by way of variety, without offending the strait-laced prejudices and high-toned morality of the one set, or debarring herself from the questionable amusements of the other.

To-night Lady Jean is very gracious, very affable, very dignified; her rooms are thronged with great personages. A list of nothing but titles will fill the pages of the _Court Journal_ that describes her "reception" to-morrow, and she feels that she is a person of much consequence. Lady Vavasour looks at her with more curiosity than she has yet evinced. Her husband's words have aroused her interest.

Lady Jean is attired in some wonderful combination of deep ruby and old gold that suits her dark beauty to perfection. Lauraine gazes at her with a sort of wonder. It has never struck her before that the woman is so marvellously handsome.

They pass on with the rest of the crowd after a few words. In one of the rooms a great singer is singing. Lauraine stands and listens. Some one comes up to her and offers his hand. She just glances up and smiles as she takes it. Neither of them speaks. Only two eager blue eyes take in every detail of her dress and appearance, and give so glad a welcome in their glance that perhaps it is as well she does not see it.

The song is over. The crowd move about. Keith Athelstone bends close to Lauraine. "Let me find you a seat," he says. "These rooms are stifling."

Lauraine nods and takes his arm. Her husband has gone back to the staircase and--Lady Jean.

"I hardly know any one here," she says at last. "It is the first time I have come to the house."

"Is it?" answers Keith, rather indifferently. "There are heaps of big swells here, I believe. Pity Mrs. Bradshaw Woollffe can't be among them. How delighted she would be!"

"How long do you stay with her?" asked Lauraine.

"I scarcely know. I am looking out for a set of rooms; but I haven't found anything I like yet."

"Are you so hard to please?"

"I don't think so. But I must have lots of room and something green to look at. I wonder if I dare ask your assistance in the furnishing line. I'm afraid I shall make an awful muddle of it."

Lauraine laughs. "Are you going in for the æsthetic style--peacock-blue, and sage-green and yellow? Oh, yes--I shall be delighted to help you. We'll drive to Morris's and select things together."

_Together_! His heart gives a quick throb as he hears that word. He wonders whether she has forgotten. He feels a little impatient of this calm friendliness with which she always treats him. She ignores the past so utterly that at times he feels impelled to say or do something desperate, if only to awaken her from that calm, and know that she can feel still.

The attraction she had had for him is potent as ever. All his rage and indignation had not killed it--the barrier in his path seemed but to rouse it to fresh life when they met again.

No woman in the world was to him what Lauraine was. No woman ever would be, he felt assured. Had he been wise he would have shunned her presence so long as he knew it could exercise its old potent witchery.

But who is wise that loves?

"She is quite safe," he would tell himself restlessly. "And for myself--if it hurts, it is my own fault. I must see her sometimes."

He had grown to look upon Lauraine as martyred to her mother's selfishness. He knew she had never cared for her husband. He saw that even in this short space of time they were drifting slowly--surely apart.

"And I would have made her so happy!" he thought to himself in those hours of solitude when the maddening recollection of her face was always before him.

He almost hated her at such times; hated her because he could not forget her, and all his riches seemed nothing in comparison with just--her love.

She was quite unsuspicious as yet. She thought he must have got over his boyish infatuation long since, and that their friendship was as real to him as to her. He was careful enough not to undeceive her, for he dreaded above all the sentence of banishment she would inevitably pronounce. She had grown so much colder and prouder since her marriage, he thought.

The seat is found, and side by side they sit, talking of a hundred different things that for them have a common interest. To Lauraine it is the most natural thing in the world that Keith should be beside her, and she can always talk to him as she can to no one else. Yet there is that about her which keeps all dangerous allusions in check, which sometimes chills and sometimes awes the wild, hot, young heart beating so restlessly by her side. He tries a hundred times to speak, and yet--he dares not. "She would never forgive," he thinks to himself. "It would seem almost an insult now."

For he knows that there is one tie which sanctifies her heart, and sets her far above the touch and fear of a selfish passion. It is her love for her child.

"Your wife and her old playfellow seem devoted to each other," remarks Lady Jean, as she leans on Sir Francis Vavasour's arm, and makes the tour of her splendid rooms.

He looks carelessly at the couple in question. They are sitting in an alcove, the soft hues of the hangings and the rich tints of flowers framing them in with a glow of colour. Keith is bending over Lauraine; he holds her bouquet in his hand, and toys restlessly with the fragrant blossoms. Her face is softly flushed, the long dark lashes sweep her cheek, a little smile, half tender, half sad, plays about her lips.

"What a handsome couple they would have made," continues Lady Jean blandly. "Just seem suited for each other. You ought to feel flattered, _mon ami_, that you carried the day."

"Pshaw! they are like brother and sister," mutters Sir Francis impatiently.

"Are they? How very charming! Only brothers and sisters as a rule don't seem quite so devoted to each other. But, of course, the relationship and the 'seeming' it are two very different things. Do you know, I think your wife is very beautiful."

"You are very good to say so."

Lady Jean laughs. "My flattery is quite sincere. I really admire her very much. She is a little too grave and serious, perhaps, but that is a fault on the right side. There is too much fastness and vulgarity in society nowadays. A quiet woman is quite refreshing."

"Lauraine never used to be grave and serious," Sir Francis remarks somewhat moodily. "She was one of the merriest and most amusing girls I ever met."

"Ah!" observes his companion sententiously. "_That_ was before she married you. Somehow marriage does alter some women amazingly."