It was not only Marrion Paul whose night had been disturbed. Lord Drummuir, brought thereto by many days' indiscretions, Périgord pie at supper, and perchance his hot though transient anger at the finale to the fandango, fell a victim to the sharpest attack of gout he had had since Christmas and kept his side of the house awake with his curses on things in general, and his valet in particular.
And, on the other side of the south wing, Fantine Le Grand, alias Fanny Biggs, sat till dawn, staring at herself in the looking-glass and ciphering out the effect of something, new yet old, which had unexpectedly come into her life. She had sent her maid to bed, but felt no inclination for her own, until the disturbing element had been thoroughly reckoned with; for she was eminently practical and shrewd.
So she sat, her elbows on the dressing-table, her fingers cramped in her loosened hair, taking stock of the pretty painted face which had been the loadstar of her life. It was beginning to show age. She had admitted that to herself for some time past, and had told herself it was time for her to draw in her horns. But now had come this disturbing factor. Only that morning she had remorselessly plotted to turn Marmaduke out of the house by fair means or foul. Now she was clear-sighted enough to admit that she would much rather keep him beside her.
Strange that one dance, one delicious abandonment of herself to his directions should have revived her youth--made her think of the gouty old man with positive loathing.
"You are a fool," she murmured to her reflection in the glass; but the reflection answered back--"It is your last chance. Why miss it?"
She thought and thought, only one thing coming to her with certainty. To play with Marmaduke, as she had proposed to do, would be to play with fire. Was she prepared for this?
At last, wearied out, she rose, poured out a double dose of sleeping drops, and put off further considerations for the morning, since no matter at what decision she arrived, she could not afford to be haggard. She woke, late as usual, to feel, with the usual buoyancy of perfect health and practically no conscience, that she had been making a mountain out of a molehill; but the first glance at the breakfast-table laid in her little boudoir sent a thrill through her which reminded her that there were indeed pitfalls ahead. For on it lay a huge bunch of red, red roses, tied together somewhat clumsily with a red silk officer's scarf, and in it was tucked away a boyish note: "Excuse tie, I hadn't any other ribbon. Hope you aren't tired after our wonderful dance. My love to you."
So it was real, tangible; and something must be settled one way or the other. She frowned over her breakfast and then, untying the bouquet, disposed the roses about the room, since Lord Drummuir, of whose illness she had not yet heard, might come in at any moment. The tie she set aside, its fate being not yet decided.
After a while Colonel Compton, as usual, lounged in, a cigar in his mouth.
"By George, Fan," he said admiringly, "that was a treat you gave us last night! Upon my soul, if I'd known you had so much spunk left in you, I'd never have advised your going on the shelf! If you could only get that young fellow as a co, you'd take the town by storm."