Laurel had never seen Mr. Le Roy so brilliant as he was this evening. It seemed that he had never exerted himself for her. He was affable, courteous, fascinating to his visitors, especially so to the lady. He had softly spoken words for her winning smiles that Laurel had never dreamed could curve those sternly set lips. A pang of bitterness pierced the sensitive heart of the lovely young impostor.
"He has never thought Beatrix Gordon worthy of his kind words and smiles," she thought.
He did not think so now it seemed. He did not speak to her, seldom looked at her. His words and looks were lavished on the fair, smiling widow who gave herself up to the flirtation with eager, absorbing interest. The count paid great attention to Laurel, and she tried to look interested in his conversation, but she was glad when the dinner was ended and the ladies passed from the room, leaving the gentlemen to finish their wine.
Mrs. Merivale went to the low window and looked out upon the moonlit balcony.
"How lovely it is!" she cried. "Will you come out, Mrs. Le Roy?—you and Miss Gordon?"
"Beatrix may go—I am afraid of the night air," Mrs. Le Roy responded, settling herself in an easy-chair.
"Will you come, Miss Gordon?" asked the fair widow. "It is too lovely a night to remain indoors," she added, sentimentally.
Laurel went out to her, and Mrs. Merivale drew her ringed hand lovingly through the girl's arm.
"Let us go out and gather some roses with the moonlight and dew upon them. They will be so sweet," she said, winningly. "And, please, will you call me Maud, and let me call you Beatrix? We are both too young to be ceremonious with each other."
They went down into the graveled paths where the September moonlight shone clear and white, and then Maud Merivale seemed to forget all about the roses.