"Ma chére," laughs her husband roughly, "one doesn't stand on ceremony after a few years of married life. Don't stay here for me. I'm off too, now. I have heaps of things to do."
"Will you dine with us to-night?" asks Lauraine.
"To-night? Well, yes. I suppose it will look better, and I should like to see what sort of fellow your æsthetic friend has captured. Jove! if men only knew what fools they are to marry!"
But Lauraine has left. Sir Francis takes up his hat. His face is dark and disturbed.
"Jean was right. There is something," he mutters. "But Lauraine is not like—her. Should I be better pleased if she were? Sometimes I think I would give the world for freedom; and yet——"
The door opens. Lady Etwynde sweeps in, as radiant and fair a vision as eyes could wish to behold.
"Sir Francis! You here, and alone! Why, where is Lauraine?"
"Gone to her room. Not well, or tired, or something," he says, as he shakes hands. "I am glad you have had her here; she mopes herself to death down at the Chase. I can't see what she is so fond of it for. I detest it myself."
"There are associations, you see," says Lady Etwynde. "Her child was born there, and there died."
He feels somewhat ashamed. He thinks of his wife—how young, how sorrowful she looked; how all the life and radiance seemed crushed out of her heart. But then the old weariness and impatience assert themselves. Life with Lauraine has been so flat and monotonous.