Lady Lenore smiled, and glanced archly at the clock.
"No post till seven," she said; "won't it do after our game?"
"No post!" he said, with affected concern. "Better telegraph," he muttered.
"I'll get you a form!" she said, sweetly; "and you can send it by one of the pages."
"Eh?" he stammered, blushing like a school-boy. "No, don't trouble; couldn't think of it. After all it doesn't matter."
Then she knew that Leycester had given him some missive, and she watched him closely. No poorer hand at deception than poor Charles could possibly be imagined; he felt as if the softly-smiling velvet eyes could see into his pocket, and his hand closed over the letter with a movement that she noted instantly.
"It is a letter," she thought, "and it is for her."
And a pang of jealous fire ran through her, but she still looked up at him with a languid smile.
"Well, are you coming?"
"Of course," he assented, with too palpably-feigned alacrity. And he ran down the stairs.