"At one-and-twenty?" Rose Lyndwood half smiled. "How many marry their first loves, my lady?"
The Countess sank into the chair.
"I did," she murmured in an uncontrolled voice, "and I had nothing but happiness." And she began weeping for the twelve years dead.
"Marius was my lord's heir with you," said the Earl, "and I have brought you nothing but misfortune. Do not shed tears, my lady, and shame me, for maybe I can still sell myself to buy Marius his romance."
The Countess struggled with sick sobs; half under her breath she murmured incoherent railings and feeble complaints. The Earl became paler as he listened to her.
The candle was burning to the socket; the moonlight lay on the floor between them, in a shifting, widening patch.
"I am returning to London to-night," said Rose Lyndwood at last.
My lady got to her feet and supported herself against the side of the desk, holding her handkerchief to her eyes.
"Go when you will," she answered; "nay, go soon, for I have no desire to see you in the house—let me be alone with Marius." A sudden gleam of anger shone through her weak tears. "Nay, I doubt not you have companions in London in whose society ye can soon forget my unhappiness."
He made no answer, nor did he move, and without a look between them the Countess left the room.