They sat on the veranda conversing on various topics, and as Beatrice listened to the charming words and the sweet laugh of the viscountess, and contemplated her brilliant beauty, she no longer wondered that Idris should have fallen in love with her.
During the course of the conversation some details of Lorelie's history became revealed.
She was now twenty-three years of age, and had been born at Nantes in the same year in which her father, Captain Rochefort, had aided Eric Marville to escape from the Breton prison. Her father she had never known, nor had he ever been seen again by Madame Rochefort after his flight in the yacht Nemesis.
When Lorelie was sixteen years of age her mother died, leaving to her an income sufficient with economy for her maintenance. Henceforward she had led a solitary independent life, content with her books and music. In her twenty-first year she met Lord Walden at Monaco.
They were married privately, and while the earl supposed his son to be carrying on the course of study requisite for the diplomatic profession, that son was in reality quietly celebrating his honeymoon on the Riviera.
After a few months of wedded life Lorelie suddenly conceived the purpose of visiting Ormsby, though her husband was opposed to the idea. By preconcerted arrangement she took up her residence at The Cedars, some weeks prior to Ivar's home-coming, lest their coincident arrival should give rise to suspicion.
And here she remained, concealing her rightful name and rank in compliance with Ivar's wish, and waiting till a favourable opportunity should arrive for making the marriage known to the stern old earl.
Secret contempt stole over Idris at the course pursued by the viscount. A man might be very well content to brave his father's anger and the loss of an estate, however splendid, for such a wife as Lorelie. By some subtle process of telepathy his thoughts communicated themselves to her, and knowing that he would not have hesitated at such sacrifice, the viscountess trembled and durst not meet his glance, lest he should read in her eyes more than he ought. Contrary to the proverb the third person on this occasion was not de trop. Lorelie felt grateful for the presence of Beatrice, and clung to her as to a protecting angel.
"May I add one to this pleasant trio?" said a new voice, breaking in upon them: and, looking up, Idris caught the suspicious glance of the man whom he was striving not to hate—Lorelie's husband!
Lord Walden coldly acknowledged Idris' presence, smiled at Beatrice, and still keeping up the pretence of being merely a personal friend of Lorelie's, was addressing her as "Mademoiselle Rivière," when Beatrice intervened with, "Why disguise the truth, Cousin Ivar? We know that there is no Mademoiselle Rivière now."