There were two or three small tables of very dainty, fragile make, and the chairs were in delicately-tinted tapestry illustrating the fables of La Fontaine.
It was an apartment looked upon by Hortensia as her own withdrawing-room, set apart for her own use, and as that the household--her very ladyship included--had ever recognized it.
His lordship closed the door with care.

Hortensia took her seat upon the long stool that stood at the spinet, her back to the instrument, and with hands idle in her lap--the same cold reserve upon her countenance-she awaited his communication.
He advanced until he was close beside her, and stood leaning an elbow on the corner of the spinet, a long and not ungraceful figure, with the black curls of his full-bottomed wig falling about his swarthy, big-featured face.
"I have but my farewells to make, Hortensia," said he.

"I am leaving Stretton House, to-day, at last." "I am glad," said she, in a formal, level voice, "that things should have fallen out so as to leave you free to go your ways." "You are glad," he answered, frowning slightly, and leaning farther towards her.

"Ay, and why are you glad?
Why?
You are glad for Mr.
Caryll's sake.

Do you deny it ?" She looked up at him quite calm and fearlessly.