Marcella felt a sudden terror rush through her as she blindly followed Lady Winterbourne; her limbs trembled under her; she took advantage of a conversation between her companion and the master of the house to sink down for a moment on a settee, where she felt out of sight and notice.

What was this intolerable sense of loss and folly, this smarting emptiness, this rage with herself and her life?  She only knew that whereas the touch, the eye of Aldous Raeburn had neither compelled nor thrilled her, so long as she possessed his whole heart and life—­now—­that she had no right to either look or caress; now that he had ceased even to regard her as a friend, and was already perhaps making up that loyal and serious mind of his to ask from another woman the happiness she had denied him; now, when it was absurdly too late, she could—­

Could what?  Passionate, wilful creature that she was!—­with that breath of something wild and incalculable surging through the inmost places of the soul, she went through a moment of suffering as she sat pale and erect in her corner—­brushed against by silks and satins, chattered across by this person and that—­such as seemed to bruise all the remaining joy and ease out of life.

But only a moment!  Flesh and blood rebelled.  She sprang up from her seat; told herself that she was mad or ill; caught sight of Mr. Lane coming towards them, and did her best by smile and greeting to attract him to her.

“You look very white, my dear Miss Boyce,” said that cheerful and fatherly person.  “Is it that tiresome arm still?  Now, don’t please go and be a heroine any more!”

CHAPTER XIII.

Meanwhile, in the tea-room, Betty was daintily sipping her claret-cup, while Aldous stood by her.

“No,” said Betty, calmly, looking straight at the lady in the tiara who was standing by the buffet, “she’s not beautiful, and I’ve torn my dress running after her.  There’s only one beautiful person here to-night!”

Aldous found her a seat, and took one himself beside her, in a corner out of the press.  But he did not answer her remark.

“Don’t you think so, Mr. Aldous?” said Betty, persisting, but with a little flutter of the pulse.

“You mean Miss Boyce?” he said quietly, as he turned to her.

“Of course!” cried Betty, with a sparkle in her charming eyes; “what is it in her face?  It excites me to be near her.  One feels that she will just have lived twice as much as the rest of us by the time she comes to the end.  You don’t mind my talking of her, Mr. Aldous?”

There was an instant’s silence on his part.  Then he said in a constrained voice, looking away from his companion, “I don’t mind it, but I am not going to pretend to you that I find it easy to talk of her.”

“It would be a shame of you to pretend anything,” said Betty, fervently, “after all I’ve told you!  I confessed all my scrapes to you, turned out all my rubbish bag of a heart—­well, nearly all”—­she checked herself with a sudden flush—­“And you’ve been as kind to me as any big brother could be.  But you’re dreadfully lofty, Mr. Aldous!  You keep yourself to yourself.  I don’t think it’s fair!”