whether she dared to hope.
Downstairs on the landing she was soon surrounded. Lady

Blakeney never stepped from any house into her coach, without an
escort of fluttering human moths around the dazzling light of her

beauty. But before she finally turned away from Chauvelin, she held
out a tiny hand to him, with that pretty gesture of childish appeal

which was essentially her own.
"Give me some hope, my little Chauvelin," she pleaded.

With perfect gallantry he bowed over that tiny hand, which
looked so dainty and white through the delicately" target="_blank" title="ad.精美地；微妙地">delicatelytransparent black

lace mitten, and kissing the tips of the rosy fingers:--
"Pray heaven that the thread may not snap," he repeated, with

his enigmatic smile.
And stepping aside, he allowed the moths to flutter more

closely round the candle, and the brilliantthrong of the JEUNESSE
DOREE, eagerlyattentive to Lady Blakeney's every movement, hid the

keen, fox-like face from her view.
CHAPTER XVI RICHMOND

A few minutes later she was sitting, wrapped in cozy furs,
near Sir Percy Blakeney on the box-seat of his magnificent coach, and

the four splendid bays had thundered down the quiet street.
The night was warm in spite of the gentle breeze which fanned

Marguerite's burning cheeks. Soon London houses were left behind, and
rattling over old Hammersmith Bridge, Sir Percy was driving his bays

rapidly towards Richmond.
The river wound in and out in its pretty delicate curves,

looking like a silver serpent beneath the glittering rays of the moon.
Long shadows from overhanging trees spread occasional deep palls right

across the road. The bays were rushing along at breakneck speed, held
but slightly back by Sir Percy's strong, unerring hands.

These nightly drives after balls and suppers in London were a
source of perpetual delight to Marguerite, and she appreciated her

husband's eccentricity keenly, which caused him to adopt this mode of
taking her home every night, to their beautiful home by the river,

instead of living in a stuffy London house. He loved driving his
spirited horses along the lonely, moonlit roads, and she loved to sit

on the box-seat, with the soft air of an English late summer's night
fanning her face after the hot atmosphere of a ball or supper-party.

The drive was not a long one--less than an hour, sometimes, when the
bays were very fresh, and Sir Percy gave them full rein.

To-night he seemed to have a very devil in his fingers, and
the coach seemed to fly along the road, beside the river. As usual,

he did not speak to her, but stared straight in front of him, the
ribbons seeming to lie quite loosely in his slender, white hands.

Marguerite looked at him tentatively once or twice; she could see his
handsome profile, and one lazy eye, with its straight fine brow and

drooping heavy lid.
The face in the moonlight looked singularly earnest, and

recalled to Marguerite's aching heart those happy days of courtship,
before he had become the lazy nincompoop, the effete fop, whose life

seemed spent in card and supper rooms.
But now, in the moonlight, she could not catch the expression

of the lazy blue eyes; she could only see the outline of the firm
chin, the corner of the strong mouth, the well-cut massive shape of

the forehead; truly, nature had meant well by Sir Percy; his faults
must all be laid at the door of that poor, half-crazy mother, and of

the distracted heart-broken father, neither of whom had cared for the
young life which was sprouting up between them, and which, perhaps,

their very carelessness was already beginning to wreck.
Marguerite suddenly felt intensesympathy for her husband.

The moral crisis she had just gone through made her feel indulgent
towards the faults, the delinquencies, of others.

How thoroughly a human being can be buffeted and overmastered
by Fate, had been borne in upon her with appalling force. Had anyone

told her a week ago that she would stoop to spy upon her friends, that
she would betray a brave and unsuspecting man into the hands of a

relentless enemy, she would have laughed the idea to scorn.
Yet she had done these things; anon, perhaps the death of that

brave man would be at her door, just as two years ago the Marquis de
St. Cyr had perished through a thoughtless words of hers; but in that

case she was morally innocent--she had meant no serious harm--fate
merely had stepped in. But this time she had done a thing that

obviously was base, had done it deliberately, for a motive which,
perhaps, high moralists would not even appreciate.

As she felt her husband's strong arm beside her, she also felt
how much more he would dislike and despise her, if he knew of this

night's work. Thus human beings judge of one another, with but little
reason, and no charity. She despised her husband for his inanities

and vulgar, unintellectual occupations; and he, she felt, would
despise her still worse, because she had not been strong enough to do

right for right's sake, and to sacrifice her brother to the dictates
of her conscience.

Buried in her thoughts, Marguerite had found this hour in the
breezy summer night all too brief; and it was with a feeling of keen

disappointment, that she suddenly realised that the bays had turned
into the massive gates of her beautiful English home.

Sir Percy Blakeney's house on the river has become a historic
one: palatial in its dimensions, it stands in the midst of exquisitely

laid-out gardens, with a picturesqueterrace and frontage to the
river. Built in Tudor days, the old red brick of the walls looks

eminently picturesque in the midst of a bower of green, the beautiful
lawn, with its old sun-dial, adding the true note of harmony to its

foregrounds, and now, on this warm early autumn night, the leaves
slightly turned to russets and gold, the old garden looked singularly

poetic and peaceful in the moonlight.
With unerring precision, Sir Percy had brought the four bays

to a standstill immediately in front of the fine Elizabethan entrance
hall; in spite of the late hour, an army of grooms seemed to have

emerged from the very ground, as the coach had thundered up, and were
standing respectfully round.

Sir Percy jumped down quickly, then helped Marguerite to
alight. She lingered outside a moment, whilst he gave a few orders to

one of his men. She skirted the house, and stepped on to the lawn,
looking out dreamily into the silverylandscape. Nature seemed

exquisitely at peace, in comparison with the tumultuous emotions she
had gone through: she could faintly hear the ripple of the river and

the occasional soft and ghostlike fall of a dead leaf from a tree.
All else was quiet round her. She had heard the horses

prancing as they were being led away to their distant stables, the
hurrying of servant's feet as they had all gone within to rest: the

house also was quite still. In two separate suites of apartments,
just above the magnificent reception-rooms, lights were still burning,

they were her rooms, and his, well divided from each other by the
whole width of the house, as far apart as their own lives had become.

Involuntarily she sighed--at that moment she could really not have
told why.

She was suffering from unconquerable heartache. Deeply and
achingly she was sorry for herself. Never had she felt so pitiably

lonely, so bitterly in want of comfort and of sympathy. With another
sigh she turned away from the river towards the house, vaguely

wondering if, after such a night, she could ever find rest and sleep.
Suddenly, before she reached the terrace, she heard a firm

step upon the crisp gravel, and the next moment her husband's figure
emerged out of the shadow. He too, had skirted the house, and was

wandering along the lawn, towards the river. He still wore his heavy
driving coat with the numerous lapels and collars he himself had set

in fashion, but he had thrown it well back, burying his hands as was
his wont, in the deep pockets of his satin breeches: the gorgeous

white costume he had worn at Lord Grenville's ball, with its jabot of
priceless lace, looked strangelyghostly against the dark background

of the house.
He apparently did not notice her, for, after a few moments

pause, he presently turned back towards the house, and walked straight
up to the terrace.

"Sir Percy!"