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They met face to face. Lucy's turned
crimson, in spite of herself.
"Are you quite well?" asked Lionel, shaking hands, his own pulses
beating. "You are going out this evening, I see?"
He made the remark as a question, noticing her dress; and Lucy,
gathering her senses about her, and relapsing into her calm composure,
looked somewhat surprised.
"We are going to dinner to Verner's Pride; I and Decima. Did you not
expect us?"
"I--did not know it," he was obliged to answer. "Mrs. Verner mentioned
that some friends would dine with us this evening, but I was not aware
that you and Decima were part of them. I am glad to hear it."
Lucy continued her way, wondering what sort of a household it could be
where the husband remained in ignorance of his wife's expected guests.
Lionel passed on to the drawing-room.
Lady Verner sat in it. Her white gloves on her delicate hands as usual,
her essence bottle and laced handkerchief beside her, Lionel offered her
his customary fond greeting, and placed the cheque in her hands.
"Will that do, mother mine?"
"Admirably, Lionel.


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