"The candle requires snuffing," said Rose Lyndwood; "but I do not wish to burn my fingers nor can I see the snuffers." He smiled with his pale lips and his fickle grey eyes. "Good-night, madam."
The Countess took a step forward as he moved towards the door; it seemed she would have struck him, but he made a motion with his hand as if he brushed her aside, laughed in her face and left the room.
He did not close the door. The Countess, looking after him, saw in the dimly lit hall the figure of Honoria Pryse in a dark wrapper, moving back secretively as she was surprised by my lord's sudden appearance.
"I was coming for her ladyship," she said in a tone of covert defiance.
Rose Lyndwood glanced from maid to mistress, and both winced; then he passed slowly up the dark stairs.
Honoria Pryse came into the drawing-room and closed the door; her first action was to snuff the candle and set it further on the table.
The Countess sank down upon the sofa, and with a groan hid her face in the bend of her arm.
"He knows," said the maid, thrusting the loose gold hair back under her mob.
"He has always known," the Countess raised her face, "and it doth not touch him; he brushes it from him as a fly off his sleeve. I told him of my father's letter; what did he care?" She clenched her fragile hands in the dove-coloured cushions. "My God, I am sick with hate, or love."