"Very likely; but there is the dinner bell."
Lady Desmond was thoughtful and distrait; that evening; she spoke little of Lord Effingham, and only conversed by an effort. After tea, she entreated Kate, who had already recommenced her practising, to sing some of the airs she had been arranging previous to her grandfather's death; and Kate, anxious to conquer the repugnance she had felt of late to her favourite occupation, complied, till the tears pouring down her cheeks interrupted her.
"Dearest, forgive me," cried Lady Desmond, roused from her thoughts by the sudden cessation of the music, and flying to her side, "how selfish, how thoughtless I am," and winding her arm round Kate's waist, drew her to the window, through which the moonlight streamed, and the breeze wafted a thousand perfumes.
They stood there a few moments in silence, till Kate, recovering her composure, pressed a kiss upon her cousin's cheek. Lady Desmond started, and a sudden tremor ran through her frame.
"You are cold, dear Georgy? come from the window."
"Oh, no, no! I wish I was cold and calm! Ah, Kate, I am not happy! I would fain change with you!"
"With me! surely not with one so lonely and——."
"Lonely! Who can be more lonely than I am? You have been so much loved; I would give any thing for even the memory of such affection, as the dear Colonel had, for you; some one to live for, some one to die for, who would understand your every glance!"
"But, dearest Georgy, you had all this in your husband!"