So she silently crossed the hall, walking on the soft deep drugget, into which her footsteps sank noiselessly, as she entered what she supposed to be her own boudoir.
The room was dark, except from the gleam of light that stole in from the chandelier in the hall, and the dull glow of the coal fire that might be dimly seen in the distant dressing room, at the end of the suite.
Claudia, however, had no sooner entered the room and looked around than she discovered that it was not hers. This suite of apartments was arranged upon the same plan as her own—first the boudoir, then the bed chamber, and last the dressing room with the little coal fire; but—the hangings were different; for, where hers had been golden brown, these were rosy red.
And she was about to retire and close the door softly when the sound of voices in the adjoining room arrested her steps.
The first that spoke was the voice of Faustina, in tones of passionate grief and remonstrance. She was saying:
"But to bring her here! here, of all the places in the world! here, under my own very eyes! Ah!"
"My angel, I had a design in bringing her here, a design in which your future honor and happiness is involved," said the voice of Lord Vincent, in such tones of persuasive tenderness as he had never used in speaking to his betrayed and miserable wife.
"My honor and happiness! Ah!" cried the woman with a half-suppressed shriek.
"Faustina, my beloved, listen to me!" entreated the viscount.
"Do not love her! Do not, Malcolm! If you do I warn you that I shall kill her!" wildly exclaimed the woman, interrupting him.