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'I was hearing his praises sung the other night,' said Lady Northaw. 'Mrs. Rouge-croix says there is no man in the world so well able to put one up to a wrinkle or two.'

'That is not necessary in her case,' growled Sir Wolfrey, 'for she has quite enough of her own.'

'Well,' said Mrs. Ingram, rising, 'I cannot wait, even to hear the glorification of Lord Forestfield, as I have some calls to make. Recollect, May; you come to my box at the French plays, and we can afterwards go on to Lady Paribole's.'

When her guests were gone, Lady Forestfield went to her boudoir, and seated herself at her little writing-table. Not that she had any intention of writing; her hand toyed with the pen, and wandered idly among the nicknacks with which the table was covered, as she thought of the occurrences of the morning, and tried to find a clue to the future in anything her husband had said or done. There had been nothing extraordinary, she thought; he had been quiet and reticent in his usual cool cynical way; and though she had winced at his speech about wifely duties and wifely sins, it was probably merely a conscience smart, as the observation was not pointedly addressed to her. Not another word had she heard from Gustave, who, had he found his suspicions correct, would undoubtedly have found some means of giving her farther warning. He must have been deceived; a man of Lord Forestfield's temper, with such knowledge rankling in his breast, could not have come quietly home, taken his luncheon with her in the presence of friends, and gone off to the country, as was his frequent custom, without making any sign. The danger was over, she thought; but the vow of resistance to temptation which she had made that morning should be steadfastly kept.