So they made the second great mistake of their lives. These two, who had been married lovers, fancied they could be friends. If it had not been so sad and so pitiful, it would have been amusing to have heard the conditions of that friendship—they were as numerous as the preliminaries of an article of peace. They made all arrangements; their friendship was to be of the purest and most platonic nature; there was to be nothing said which would remind them of the past; he was to shake hands with her when he came and when he went; he might pay her a visit twice or three times a week; if they met, they were to be on friendly terms; they would discuss art, literature, and music—anything and everything except their own story; they were to take an interest in each other's lives and fortunes.

"I shall take such a pride in your career, Leone," said Lord Chandos, in all good faith; "it will be the dearest part of my life."

She held up one white finger with a smile; that was trespassing on forbidden ground. He must not break the new code of friendship by saying such things.

"We are friends, not lovers, Lord Chandos," she said, gently; "you will annoy me if you forget that. The dearer part of your life is at home."

He apologized for the words.

"I mean," he said, "that I shall take the keenest interest in your career, and watch it with pride."

"That is right, as I shall yours, Lord Chandos. I am proud of you, I am proud when I read your speeches; it seems to me no other man ever spoke so well. I am proud when I read that the rising man of the day is Lord Chandos, that England looks to Lord Chandos as a great power and a promising statesman. Ah, yes, I am proud of you when I read those things. Your face, your eager, hopeful eyes rise before me, and I say to myself, 'Ah, yes, he is a genius, and the world knows it.' It is pleasant to have true friends, such as we shall be to each other."

"Yes," he had answered her, with a sigh; "we should have been foolish indeed, Leone, to have deprived ourselves of this, the only consolation left in life for either of us. We shall be more happy as friends, Leone; it would have been too horrible to have been always apart."

They hedged themselves round with precautions; they were to be so prudent; they were not to address each other as Lance and Leone; they were never to sing old songs together; he was not to go behind the scenes in the theater, he was not to wait for her in the evening. She said to him laughingly, that they ought to have these conditions of friendship written down as they write down the articles of war or the preliminaries of peace.

"We ought to have parchment strong as parchment can be; but, Lord Chandos, we must keep to our rules, no matter what happens."

So they intended, and neither of them had the faintest idea of ever deviating from the rules laid down. It was better than nothing, spending a few hours with her each week was refreshing as an oasis in a desert; he eagerly looked forward to those days on which he was permitted to call, and before long these visits became chiefly the event of his life—he thought of little else.

So it gradually came about that the stronger nature gained the ascendency, the stronger soul gained the upper hand in his life. The love of Leone had always been by far the strongest element in his life; it had been set aside by a series of clever maneuvers, but now it resumed its sway. He did not intend it; he was weak enough and foolish enough to think that the prudent friendship could replace mad love, and he was not very long before he found out his mistake. But at first all went well—her praise stimulated him, he gave loose to the fiery eloquence that was natural to him. Knowing that she would read and criticise every word, he took more pride and pleasure in his public life than he had ever done before; he liked to hear her criticisms on his opinions and actions; he was delighted with the interest she took in his works.

At times the visits he paid were all occupied with the discussion of these details. He would tell her of some great oration or speech that he intended to make on some important measure, she would talk it over to him, and her marvelous intelligence, her bright wit and originality always threw some new light on the matter, some more picturesque view. In this she differed from Lady Marion, who was more timid and retiring, who looked upon everything connected with public life as a dreadful ordeal, who, fond as she was of literature, could not read a newspaper, who, dearly as she loved her husband, could not interest herself in his career.

So gradually and slowly the old love threw its glamour over them, slowly the master passion took its place again in Lord Chandos' life, but just at that time it was unknown to himself. It came at last that the only real life for him was the time spent with her—the morning hours when he discussed all the topics of the day with her, and the evening when he leaned over his opera box, his eyes drinking in the marvelous beauty of her face.

Then, as a matter of course, Lady Marion began to wonder where he went. He had been accustomed, when he had finished his breakfast, always to consult her about the day's plans—whether she liked to walk, ride, or drive, and he had always been her companion; but now it often happened that he would say to her:

"Marion, drive with my mother this morning, she likes to have you with her; my father goes out so little, you know."

She always smiled with the most amiable air of compliance with his wishes, but she looked up at him on this particular morning.

"Where are you going, Lance?" she asked. Her eyes took in, in their quiet fashion, every detail of his appearance, even to the dainty exotic in his button-hole.

Lord Chandos had a habit of blushing—his dark face would flush like a girl's when any sudden emotion stirred him—it did so now, and she, with wondering eyes, noticed the flush.

"Why, Lance," she said, "you are blushing; blushing just like a girl, because I just asked you where you were going."

And though the fiery red burned the dark skin, he managed to look calmly at his wife and say:

"You are always fanciful over me, Marion, and your fancies are not always correct."

She was one of the sweetest and most amiable of women, no one ever saw her ruffled or impatient. She went up to him now with the loveliest smile, and laid her fair arms round his neck; the very heaven of repose was in the eyes she raised to his.

"My darling Lance," she said, "I can never have any fancy over you; my thoughts about you are always true." She laid one slim, white hand on his face. "Why, your face burns now," she said, and he made some little gesture of impatience, and then his heart smote him. She was so fair, so gentle, and loved him so dearly.

"Have I vexed you, Lance?" she said. "I did not mean to do so. If you do not like me to ask you where you are going, I will not, but it seems to me such a simple thing."

"How can I object, or, rather, why should I object to tell you where I go, Marion? Here is my note-book; open it and read."

But when he said the words he knew that on his note-book there was no mention of Leone's name, and again his heart smote him. It was so very easy to deceive this fair, trusting woman. Lady Chandos put the note-book back in his pocket.

"I do not want to see it, Lance. I merely asked you the question because you looked so very nice, and you have chosen such a beautiful flower. I thought you were going to pay some particular visit."

He kissed the sweet, wistful face raised to his, and changed the subject.

"Do I not always look what you ladies call 'nice'?" he asked, laughingly; and she looked admiringly at him.

"You are always nice to me, Lance; there is no one like you. I often wonder if other wives are as proud of their husbands as I am of you? Now I shall try to remember that you do not like me to ask you where you are going. The greatest pleasure I have on earth is complying with every little wish of yours."

He could not help kissing her again, she was so sweet, so gentle, so kind, yet his heart smote him. Ah, Heaven! if life had been different to him; if he had been but firmer of purpose, stronger of will! He left her with an uneasy mind and a sore heart.

Lady Marion was more than usually thoughtful after he had gone. She could not quite understand.

The time had been when he had never left the house without saying something about where he was going; now his absences were long, and she did not know where his time was spent.

Lady Lanswell noticed the unusual shadow on the girl's sweet face, and in her quick, impetuous way asked her about it.

"Marion, you are anxious or thoughtful—which is it?" she asked.

"Thoughtful," said Lady Chandos. "I am not anxious, not in the least."

"Of what are you thinking, that it brings a shadow on that dear face of yours?" said Lady Lanswell, kindly.

Lady Chandos turned to her, and in a low tone of voice said:

"Has Lance any very old or intimate friends in London?"

"No; none that I know of. He knows a great many people, of course, and some very intimately, but I am not aware of any especial friendship. Why do you ask me?"

"I fancied he had; he is so much more from home than he used to be, and does not say where he goes."

"My dear Marion," said the countess, kindly, "Lance has many occupations and many cares; he cannot possibly tell you every detail of how and where he passes the time. Let me give you a little warning; never give way to any little suspicions of your husband; that is always the beginning of domestic misery; trust him all in all. Lance is loyal and true to you; do not tease him with suspicions and little jealousies."

"I am not jealous," said Lady Chandos, "but it seems to me only natural that I should like to know where my husband passes his time."

The older and wiser woman thought to herself, with a sigh, that it might be quite as well that she should not know.