"Ill? No. My dear aunt," smiling, "don't wear that alarmed face—there is nothing the matter with me."
"There is something the matter with you. You are pale, you are silent, you eat nothing. Victor, what is it?"
"I will tell you to-morrow," he answered. "Spare me until then. I am anxious, I admit, but not even to you can I tell why to-night. You shall know all about it to-morrow."
No glimmer of the truth dawned upon her as she left him. She wondered what it could be, but she would not press him further.
For Edith—she was in that mood of serene recklessness still. Of to-morrow she neither cared to think, nor tried to think. The tide of her life was at its flood; whither the stream might bear her after this night, just now, she neither knew nor cared. For the present she was free, to-morrow she might be a bondwoman. Her fetters would be of gold and roses; none the less though would they be fetters.
She played chess with Sir Victor—his hand trembled—hers was steady. Captain Hammond asked her for a Scotch song. She went to the piano and sang, never more clearly and sweetly in her life.
"Sing 'Charley he's my darling,'" suggested Trix, maliciously; "it's one of your favorites, I know."
Charley was reposing on a sofa near—the waxlights streaming over his handsome, placid face.
"Yes, sing it, Dithy," he said; "it's ages since you sang it for me now."
"And I may never sing it for you again," she answered, with a careless laugh; "one so soon grows tired of these old songs."