CHAPTER XI
Lauraine is talking to an elderly man—a colonel in the Guards. She neither looks up, nor moves, but she is perfectly, painfully conscious that Keith is standing by her side. She knows that he has crossed the room, and left Lady Etwynde with her savant, and all the time she has not lifted an eyelid, or stirred from that listening attitude. Keith stands there patiently. He has the happy knack of looking always graceful, and to-night he looks handsomer than ever, despite the pallor of his face, the dark shadows under his eyes. The Colonel talks on, and Lauraine answers animatedly.
Keith wonders if any memory is at work within her heart—if her light words and smiles are real or acted.
There is a little stir at the other end of the room. Some one is going to recite—a French count, who is a friend of Sir Francis'. The elderly colonel is a little deaf. He murmurs an apology, and moves down the long suite of rooms. Keith comes quietly forward, and drops into the vacant chair. For the first time Lauraine looks at him. With one rapid, comprehensive glance, she takes in the change in his face—the dark shadows under those heavy lashes, the weariness upon the brow, the stern sadness of the mouth. Pity, sympathy, grief—all well up in her heart and speak in her glance, but her lips are schooled to rigid silence. She dares not seem to notice these signs of suffering.
"If he would only leave me—if he would only be wise!" she thinks, with a sudden passionate dread. "I could bear that, but to go on like this is madness."
He speaks at last. "London grows unbearably hot. I suppose you will soon be leaving?" he says.
"Yes," answers Lauraine, unconcernedly. "Sir Francis talks of going yachting."
"And you accompany him?"
"I? Oh, no—I hate the sea. I shall go to Falcon's Chase. I long for a little quiet and rest. I never cared much for fashionable life, you know."
"Does Sir Francis make up a large party?"