"And what has your Bohemianism consisted in, Lord Millefleurs?"
"Good heavens!" said the self-accused, "do you venture to ask me, Lady Edith?—everything that is dreadful. For months I never wrote a letter, for months I never had a penny. It was the best fun in the world. The sting of being poor is when you can't help it. I believe, for my part, that the most luxurious condition in this world is when you know you can be well off at any moment, and yet are half starving. No, I never was half starving. I worked with these hands;" and he held out a pair of plump, delicate, pink-tinged hands, not without a little vanity. "To feel that it's quite a chance whether you have ever any dinner again, to be altogether uncertain how you're to get shelter for the night—and yet to be quite sure that nothing dreadful can happen to you, that at the worst you can always 'draw a bugle from your side,' and be surrounded by 'five-and-thirty belted knights,'—I assure you it is the most delightful excitement in the world."
It was impossible to resist this baby-faced and lisping adventurer. The mother and daughter both yielded to his fascinations. The conversation became more and more animated and amusing. At the other end of the table they were not by any means so cheerful; but Lord Lindores beheld with a satisfaction far more solid than any sort of amusement, the result of his experiment. Edith, who had been pale and distraite, doing herself no sort of justice, when they sat down at table, had roused up, and was now bright and responsive, interested in all that was being said to her. And Millefleurs, it was evident, was enjoying himself thoroughly. Two such women giving their full attention to him, listening to all his adventures—which were neither few nor small—was enough to raise him to the height of satisfaction. Lord Lindores talked very rationally and agreeably to the lady next him, but it was with an effort that he caught her not very brilliant remarks, so much interested was he in what was going on at the other end of the room. As for Rintoul, he gave himself up to his dinner. Things were going as well as possible, he thought; and though Millefleurs was a little Bohemian, he was the heir of a Duke, and could do no wrong.
It was thus that Lady Lindores was beguiled almost to forget the other guest at the table, whose coming had affected her so deeply. Her interest was easily excited, and the little Marquis was delightful. And it was not till she had returned to the comparative quiet of the drawing-room that the recollection of Beaufort came back to her. Much of the danger seemed over. It would be over altogether in another hour, and the tremor in her mind was not so all-pervading as when she first saw his familiar face approaching. But she was not to get over her ordeal so easily. When the gentlemen came up-stairs, Beaufort came at once towards her. He stood in front of her for a moment, as if claiming his right to be heard, shutting everybody else out. She felt a sort of fascination in his gaze, and could make no attempt to begin any conversation. Her tremor returned: she looked up wistfully at him without anything to say, clasping and unclasping in unspoken appeal her unsteady hands.
"It is a long time since we have met," he said at length.
"Yes—it is a long time, Mr Beaufort."
"And many things have happened since that time."
She raised her clasped hands a little from her lap in mute entreaty, and made no other reply; but it did not occur to her—what was the case—that he was quite as much excited as she was, and did not notice her agitation, being so fully occupied with his own.
"I hope—that all of your family are—well: and happy, Lady Lindores."
"Very well. Mr Beaufort, I know that there is much that must have seemed strange and cruel to you. How can I speak of it now? It is impossible to explain."