So she went chatting merrily down the stairway to her carriage, making her observations on whatever she saw with the freshness of a girl.

“Do you think Norman is happy?” she suddenly asked Keith.

“Why—­yes; don’t you think so?  He has everything on earth to make him happy,” said Keith, with some surprise.  But even at the moment it flitted across his mind that there was something which he had felt rather than observed in Mrs. Wentworth’s attitude toward her husband.

“Except that he has married a fool,” said the old lady, briefly.  “Don’t you marry a fool, you hear?”

“I believe she is devoted to Norman and to her children,” Keith began, but Miss Abigail interrupted him.

“And why shouldn’t she be?  Isn’t she his wife?  She gives him, perhaps, what is left over after her devotion to herself, her house, her frocks, her jewels, and—­Adonis.”

“Oh, I don’t believe she cares for him,” declared Keith.  “It is impossible.”

“I don’t believe she does either, but she cares for herself, and he flatters her.  The idea of a Norman-Wentworth’s wife being flattered by the attention of a tinker’s grandson!”

When the ball broke up and Mrs. Lancaster’s carriage was called, several men escorted her to it.  Wickersham, who was trying to recover ground which something told him he had lost, followed her down the stairway with one or two other men, and after she had entered the carriage stood leaning in at the door while he made his adieus and peace at the same moment.

“You were not always so cruel to me,” he said in a low tone.

Mrs. Lancaster laughed genuinely.

“I was never cruel to you, Ferdy; you mistake leniency for harshness.”

“No one else would say that to me.”

“So much the more pity.  You would be a better man if you had the truth told you oftener.”

“When did you become such an advocate of Truth?  Is it this man?”

“What man?”

“Keith.  If it is, I want to tell you that he is not what he pretends.”

A change came over Mrs. Lancaster’s face.

“He is a gentleman,” she said coldly.

“Oh, is he?  He was a stage-driver.”

Mrs. Lancaster drew herself up.

“If he was—­” she began.  But she stopped suddenly, glanced beyond Wickersham, and moved over to the further side of the carriage.

Just then a hand was laid on Wickersham’s arm, and a voice behind him said: 

“I beg your pardon.”

Wickersham knew the voice, and without looking around stood aside for the speaker to make his adieus.  Keith stepped into the carriage and pulled to the door before the footman could close it.

At the sound the impatient horses started off, leaving three men standing in the street looking very blank.  Stirling was the first to speak; he turned to the others in amazement.

“Who is Keith?” he demanded.