“To the devil with them!” he said, but the next moment advanced with a somewhat mocking smile, which was scarce hidden by his elaborate bow of ceremony to her ladyship.

“My Lady Betty Tantillion!” he exclaimed, “I did not look for such fortune.  ’Tis not necessary to hope your ladyship blooms in health.  ’Tis an age since we met.”

Since their rupture they had not spoken with each other, but my Lady Betty had used her eyes well when she had beheld him even at a distance, and his life she knew almost as well as if they had been married and she a jealous consort.

But she stood a moment regarding him with an impertinent questioning little stare, and then held up her quizzing-glass and uttered an exclamation of sad surprise.

“Sir John Oxon!” she said.  “How changed! how changed!  Sure you have been ill, Sir John, or have met with misfortunes.”

To the vainest of men and the most galled—­he who had been but a few years gone the most lauded man beauty in the town, who had been sought, flattered, adored—­’twas a bitter little stab, though he knew well the giver of the thrust.  Yet he steeled himself to bow again, though his eyes flashed.

“I have indeed been ill and in misfortune,” he answered, sardonically.  “Can a man be in health and fortunate when your ladyship has ceased to smile upon him?”

My Lady Betty courtesied with a languid air.

“Lord Charles,” she said, with indifferent condescension, “Sir Harry, you have heard of this gentleman, though he was before your day.  In his—­” (as though she recalled the past glories of some antiquated beau) “you were still at the University.”

Then as she passed to a divan to seat herself she whispered an aside to Lord Charles, holding up her fan.

“The ruined dandy,” she said, “who is mad for my Lady Dunstanwolde.  Ask him some question of his wife?”

Whereupon Lord Charles, who was willing enough to join in badgering a man who had still good looks enough to prove a rival had he the humour, turned with a patronising air of civility.

“My Lady Oxon is not with you?” he observed.

“There is none, your lordship,” Sir John answered, and almost ground his teeth, seeing the courteous insolence of the joke.  “I am a single man.”

“Lud!” cried my Lady Betty, fanning with graceful indifference. “’Twas said you were to marry a great fortune, and all were filled with envy.  What become, then, of the fair Mistress Isabel Beaton?”

“She returned to Scotland, your ladyship,” replied Sir John, his eyes transfixing her.  “Ere now ’tis ancient history.”

“Fie, Sir John,” said Lady Betty, laughing wickedly, “to desert so sweet a creature.  So lovely—­and so rich!  Men are not wise as they once were.”

Sir John drew nearer to her and spoke low.  “Your ladyship makes a butt of me,” he said.  And ’twas so ordained by Fate, at this moment when the worst of him seethed within his breast, and was ripest for mad evil, Sir Christopher Crowell came bustling into the apartment, full of exultant hilarity and good wine which he had been partaking of in the banqueting-hall with friends.