"I suppose not. I should scarcely think you had much in common," answers Lauraine dryly.
"Still," says Lady Jean, rising carelessly from the table, "it was a little odd and unnatural that you should go away with her, and leave your poor husband all to himself. If he hadn't been one of the most good-natured men——"
"Pardon me," interrupts Lauraine, very coldly, "I would rather not discuss my husband with anybody. You may rest assured I had his full sanction for my 'unnatural' conduct. And, if you know anything of a mother's feelings at all, you might suppose that I scarcely felt inclined for the gaieties and frivolities of London life after so sad a trial."
"Ah, yes; I forgot—the poor little angel," murmurs Lady Jean, her eyelids drooping to hide the angry flash in her black eyes. "But—I may be wrong—I don't know, only to me it always seemed that a wife's first duty was to her husband."
"Pray, has my husband been complaining of me?" inquires Lauraine haughtily.
Lady Jean smiles involuntarily. "My dear, no, of course not. I only said—
"I quite understand," says Lauraine. "Perhaps I was selfish in my grief. I don't know. I had not meant to be; but he chose the world, and I, solitude. I should not be so unwise again, rest assured."
"What does she mean?" says Lady Jean to herself uncomfortably. "And how strange she looked. Surely, surely, she cannot suspect!"
An hour afterwards she is strolling with Sir Francis through the grounds of the Kursaal.
"Mon cher," she says, with a little mocking laugh, "I do believe your wife is jealous. It is very amusing, but you had better be careful all the same. I object to be one in a chronique scandaleuse."