Rose Lyndwood looked in front of him with an aimless gaze into the shadows; his drooping lids and his pallor gave him an expression of weariness.
The carved clock in the corner struck ten; as the last note quivered to stillness, my lady entered the library.
"Oh, Rose, Rose!" she said before she had closed the door. "Marius tells me, in one sentence, this—that we are ruined!"
"Yes," answered the Earl.
Lady Lyndwood dropped into the chair Marius had pulled out of place and clasped her shaking hands on the desk.
"Marius also?" she whispered.
"Yes," said my lord again. "He blames me——"
"Do you wonder?" cried the Countess bitterly. "Do you wonder, Rose?"
"It seems you too find me at fault," he answered. The candle-light only faintly revealed her, sitting by the massive desk, but fell bright over his tall restrained presence, over his grave tired face.
"What did you expect of me?" asked Lady Lyndwood; then added, with a kind of feeble energy, "Rose, it cannot happen—it must not, however entangled you are. It must not come to—to that—to selling the place."