"I have forgiven, but unhappily I cannot forget," returns she, gently, without letting her eyes meet his. Then, with an air of deliberation, she raises her magazine, and he leaves the room.
So Sir Guy retires from the contest, and Archibald is elected to the coveted position of carrier to her capricious majesty, and this very night, to her great joy, brings her tenderly, carefully, to the dining-room, where a sofa has been prepared for her reception.
It so happens that three days later Archibald is summoned to London on business, and departs, leaving with Lilian his faithful promise to be back in time to perform his evening duty toward her.
But man's proposals, as we know, are not always carried out, and Chesney's fall lamentably short; as just at seven o'clock a telegram arriving for Lady Chetwoode tells her he has been unexpectedly detained in town by urgent matters, and cannot by any possibility get home till next day.
Cyril is dining with some bachelor friends near Truston: so Lady Chetwoode, who is always thoughtful, bethinks her there is no one to bring Lilian down to dinner except Guy. This certainly, for some inward reason, troubles her. She sighs a little as she remembers Lilian's marked preference for Chesney's assistance, then she turns to her maid—the telegram has reached her as she is dressing for dinner—and says to her:
"A telegram from Mr. Chesney: he cannot be home to dinner. My hair will do very well. Hardy: go and tell Sir Guy he need not expect him."
Hardy, going, meets Sir Guy in the hall below, and imparts her information.
Naturally enough, he too thinks first of Lilian. Much as it displeases his pride, he knows he must in common courtesy again offer her his rejected services. There is bitterness in the thought, and perhaps a little happiness also, as he draws his breath rather quickly, and angrily suppresses a half smile as it curls about his lips. To ask her again, to be again perhaps refused! He gazes irresolutely at the staircase, and then, with a secret protest against his own weakness, mounts it.
The second dinner-bell has already sounded: there is no time for further deliberation. Going reluctantly up-stairs, he seeks with slow and lingering footsteps his mother's boudoir.
The room is unlit, save by the glorious fire, half wood, half coal, that crackles and laughs and leaps in the joy of its own fast living. Upon a couch close to it, bathed in its warm flames, lies the little slender black-robed figure so inexpressibly dear to him. She is so motionless that but for her wide eyes, gazing so earnestly into the fire, one might imagine her wrapt in slumber. Her left arm is thrown upward so that her head rests upon it, the other hangs listlessly downward, almost touching the carpet beneath her.