Mrs. Douglas has risen ere this and moved away. She is never comfortable in Keith Athelstone's presence, and is only too thankful when she can evade him.
"Yes," says Lady Etwynde. "It is sad, but true, that much of the unhappiness of life is caused voluntarily—the proofs of our own unwisdom. Of course, results are always unforeseen. We only grope in the dark. But, for my part, I have never heard of people acting for what they term 'the best' without dire misfortunes following."
Keith's eyes seem to travel down the long rooms to where one shimmering white robe trails in fleecy folds.
His heart aches bitterly as he thinks of what "acting for the best" has brought upon two lives that might have been so happy now.
"Oh, the little more, and how much it is, and the little less—and what worlds away!"
He talks on with Lady Etwynde in desultory fashion. He knows he need not exert himself to be entertaining here. She likes a good listener—one who can be interested in her ideas and follow them, and with Keith Athelstone, as with Lauraine, she lays her art jargon aside. Yet in his heart he longs for one sound of Lauraine's voice—for just five minutes by her side.
They have not met since the scene in Lady Etwynde's garden, and to-night her greeting has been of the coldest description. But he dares not go over to her now, as he would have done a few days ago. He sits there, contenting himself with an occasional glance, and listening patiently, if a little wearily, to the beautiful æsthete's discussion. Then Lauraine looks across at him and smiles. His heart seems to warm beneath that sign of remembrance—his whole face changes. Lady Etwynde notices it, and grows troubled.
"He is in love, and he does not conceal it—poor boy," she thinks, compassionately. "Ah, I always thought those fraternal arrangements were a great imposition. One or other is sure to ask or desire that 'little more' which just makes all the difference. Ah! it is worlds enough away from these two. Does she know, I wonder? I think not. She could not act that serenity and indifference. She is too transparent. Oh, I hope she does not suspect. It would be terrible indeed. She is so young and beautiful, but she is not happy. Any one can see that; and her husband is always running after that brazen woman over there. Dear me, how sad life is. Full of contradictions—of pain. Mr. Athelstone," she adds aloud, "I want to speak to that gentleman over there. He is a savant of the most advanced school. Kindly give me your arm."
Keith rises and obeys, and comes now within the radiance of the floating white draperies that have been before his eyes the whole night long.