"Very pretty places, all of them," said Lady Adelaide, "but so shockingly wicked! It is dreadful to think of the company one meets there. Did you ever see the gambling tables, my dear? But I dare say not; you would of course be too young to be taken into such places."
"Yes, I have seen them," said Madelon, suddenly scarlet.
"My health obliges me to go to these baths from time to time," continued the old lady; "but the thought of what goes on in those Kursaals quite takes away any pleasure I might otherwise have; and the people who frequent the tables—the women and the men who go there night after night! I assure you my blood has run cold sometimes when one of those notorious gamblers has been pointed out to me, and I think of the young lives he may have ruined, the young souls he may have tempted to destruction. I myself have known some sad cases—I am sure you sympathise with me, Miss Linders?"
"Lady Adelaide," said a portly gentleman, coming up, "will you allow me to take you into supper?"
"You will not forget to come and see me, my dear," cried Lady Adelaide, with a parting wave of her fan as she moved away, leaving the girl sitting there, silent and motionless. People brushed by her as they left the room, but she paid no heed. Mrs. Vavasour spoke to her as she passed on her way to supper, but Madelon did not answer. All at once she sprang up, looking round as if longing to escape; as she did so, her eyes met Graham's; he was standing close to her, behind her chair, and something in his expression, something of sympathy, of compassion perhaps, made her cheeks flame, and her eyes fill with sudden tears of resentment and humiliation. He had heard them, he had heard every word that had been said, and he was pitying her! What right had he, what did she want with his compassion? She met his glance with one of defiance, and then turned her back upon him; she must remain where she was, she could not go out of the room alone, but, at any rate, he should not have the opportunity of letting her see that he pitied her.
Horace, however, who had in fact heard every word of the conversation, and perhaps understood Madelon's looks well enough, came up to her, as she stood alone, watching the people stream by her out of the room.
"There is supper going on somewhere," he said; "will you come and have some, or shall I bring you an ice here?"
"Neither," she answered, quickly. "I—I don't want anything, and I would rather stay here."
"Perhaps you are right," he said. "We shall have the room to ourselves in a minute, and then it will be cooler."
In fact, the room was nearly deserted—almost every one had gone away to supper. Madelon stood leaning against the window, half hidden by the curtain; the sudden gleam of defiance, of resentment against Horace, had faded; it had vanished at the sound of his kind voice, which she loved better than any other in the world. But there were tears of passion still in her eyes; her little moment of joyousness and triumph had been so cruelly dashed from her; she felt hurt, humiliated, almost exasperated.