“Please take me away.  I am bored.  I want to talk to you.”

He paused at once.  Lady Ruth nodded to her friends.

“Mr. Wingrave is going to take me to hear Melba sing,” she said.  “See you all again, I suppose, at Hereford House!”

They made slow progress through the crowded rooms.  Once or twice Wingrave fancied that his companion hung a little heavily upon his arm.  She showed no desire to talk.  She even answered a remark of his in a monosyllable.  Only when they passed the Marchioness, on the arm of one of the foreign guests in whose honor the reception was given, she seemed to shiver a little, and her grasp upon his arm was tightened.  Once, in a block, she was forced to speak to some acquaintances, and during those few seconds, Wingrave studied her curiously.  She was absolutely colorless, and her strange brilliant eyes seemed to have lost all their fire.  Her gown was black, and the decorations of her hair were black except for a single diamond.  There was something almost spectral about her appearance.  She walked stiffly—­for the moment she had lost the sinuous grace of movement which had been one of her many fascinations.  Her neck and shoulders alone remained, as ever, dazzlingly beautiful.

They reached a quiet corner at last.  Lady Ruth sank with a little gesture of relief into an easy chair.  Wingrave stood before her.

“You are tired tonight,” he remarked.

“I am always tired,” she answered wearily.  “I begin to think that I always shall be.”

He said nothing.  Lady Ruth closed her eyes for a moment as though from sheer fatigue.  Suddenly she opened them again and looked him full in the face.

“Who was she?” she asked.

“I do not understand,” he replied.

“The child you were with—­the ingenue, you know—­with the pink cheeks and the wonderful eyes!  Is she from one of the theaters, or a genuine article?”

“The young lady to whom you refer,” he answered, “is the daughter of an old friend of mine.  I am practically her guardian.  She is in London studying painting.”

“You are her guardian?” Lady Ruth repeated.  “I am sorry for her.”

“You need not be,” he answered.  “I trust that I shall be able to fulfill my duties in a perfectly satisfactory manner.”

“Oh!  I have no doubt of it,” she answered.  “Yet I am sorry for her.”

“You are certainly,” he remarked, “not in an amiable mood.”

“I am in rather a desperate one if that is anything,” she said, looking at him with something of the old light in her tired eyes.

“You made a little error, perhaps, in those calculations?” he suggested.  “It can be amended.”

“Don’t be a brute,” she answered fiercely.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“That sounds a little severe,” he remarked.

“Don’t take any notice of anything I say tonight,” she murmured softly.  “I am a little mad.  I think that everything is going against me!  I know that you haven’t a grain of sympathy for me—­that you would rather see me suffer than not, and yet you see I give myself away entirely.  Why shouldn’t I?  Part of it is through you in a way.”