Of late a strange fear has come to her—one she hardly dares breathe to herself. It is connected with Keith Athelstone. She has been trying to make herself believe that that youthful episode is quite forgotten; that her marriage has put it out of his head; that his plainly shown preference for her society is only the outcome of past association. He has said no word to undeceive her; but then perhaps words are the least dangerous of the shafts of warfare in Love's armoury. A look, a sigh, a broken sentence—these often convey more than any set form of speech, and between Keith and Lauraine is a subtle comprehension that makes them utterly independent of words. A look across a crowded room, a smile at some witticism caught by their ears when in the midst of some brilliant circle, a glance as some words of a song, or tender strain of music, touch some memory in their hearts, or awake a thrill of pain or pleasure—these are enough to draw them together by the imperceptible links of a common sympathy. But in it all Lauraine suspects no danger. It seems to her that they are so utterly divided, it is impossible Keith can forget that fact. Perhaps he does forget it, but not in the way she imagines.
The Lady Etwynde is holding a reception. It is not purely æsthetic this time, and "yearning" is not an item of the programme. Literary people, dramatic people, artistic people, musical people—a strange and somewhat odd-looking throng—crowd the "sad green" rooms, which are all thrown open en suite, and where the "fierce beauty" of the sunflower may be seen in all its glory this warm summer night.
Dissimilar as they seem, yet Lauraine and Lady Etwynde are very good friends. Lauraine has discovered how much good sense, cleverness and cordial feeling live beneath that mask of eccentricity which the fair æsthete shows to the outer world, and she finds her entertainments far more amusing than many of the others she attends.
To-night Lauraine comes alone, Sir Francis having declined to be present at what he terms "such d——d humbug." It is nearly midnight when she arrives, and the rooms are crowded. She sees the Lady Etwynde attired in a fearful and wonderful gown, with skirts more clinging, and puffs more voluminous, and hair more "tousled" than ever, and in her hand is a fan of peacock's feathers, which she from time to time waves slowly and gracefully to and fro.
Even all her enemies and detractors cannot deny that the Lady Etwynde is essentially beautiful and graceful. Her every movement and attitude are a study; her soft, clinging draperies float and sway to her rhythmic motions in a way that is at once the envy and despair of her imitators and admirers. To see her walk across a room is a treat—a poem, as her disciples say, and countless have been the effusions inspired by her doing so.
As Lauraine greets her, Keith Athelstone approaches. She had not expected to find him there, and a little flush of pleasure rises to her face.
The Lady Etwynde looks at them with grave, soft eyes, and a little puzzled wonder on her face. She has heard some of the buzzing from Society's wings, and she is beginning also to notice that Keith is the very shadow of the beautiful "Lady Lauraine."
"I have a great treat in store for you," she says, in her slow, soft voice; "Signor Alfieri has promised to sing for me to-night. You know him, do you not?"
"I have heard him at the opera, of course," says Lauraine. "But never in a room. How charming."
"He is the most perfect Faust I have ever seen on the stage," continues the Lady Etwynde. "To hear him sing the 'Salve Dinora' is quite too exquisitely divine. Yes; he is going to honour my poor little entertainment."