‘Is it a cabal?’ asked her ladyship, looking at him with a gaze that searched his soul.  ’Can you meet their charges?  Can you live down this hideous accusation, and hold up your head as a man of honour?’

The sensualist’s blue eyes nervously shunned that look of earnest interrogation.  His lips answered the wife’s spoken question with a lie, a lie made manifest by the expression of his countenance.

‘I am not afraid,’ he said.

His wife answered not a word.  She was assured that the charges were true, and that the battered rake who shivered over the fire had neither courage nor ability to face his accusers.  She saw the whole fabric of her life in ruins, her son the penniless successor to a tarnished name.  There was silence for some minutes.  Lady Maulevrier sat with lowered eyelids looking at the fire, deep in painful thought.  Two perpendicular wrinkles upon her broad white forehead—­so calm, so unclouded in society—­told of gnawing cares.  Then she stole a look at her husband, as he reclined in his arm-chair, his head lying back against the cushions in listless repose, his eyes looking vacantly at the window, whence he could see only the rain-blurred fronts of opposite houses, blank, dull windows, grey slated roofs, against a leaden sky.

He had been a handsome man, and he was handsome still, albeit premature decay, the result of an evil life, was distinctly marked in his faded face.  The dull, yellow tint of the complexion, the tarnished dimness of the large blue eyes, the discontented droop of the lips, the languor of the attitude, the pallid transparency of the wasted hands, all told of a life worn threadbare, energies exhausted, chances thrown away, a mind abandoned to despair.

‘You look very ill,’ said his wife, after that long blank interval, which marked so unnatural an apathy between husband and wife meeting after so long a severance.

’I am very ill.  I have been worried to death—­surrounded by rogues and liars—­the victim of a most infernal conspiracy.’  He spoke hurriedly, growing whiter and more tremulous as he went on.

‘Don’t talk about it.  You agitate yourself to no purpose,’ said Lady Maulevrier, with a tranquillity which seemed heartless yet which might be the result of suppressed feeling.  ’If you are to face this scandal firmly and boldly next January, you must try to recover physical strength in the meanwhile.  Mental energy may come with better health.’

‘I shall never be any better,’ said Lord Maulevrier, testily; ’that infernal climate has shattered my constitution.’

’Two or three months of perfect rest and good nursing will make a new man of you.  I have arranged that we shall go straight from here to Fellside.  No one can plague you there with that disguised impertinence called sympathy.  You can give all your thoughts to the ordeal before you, and be ready to meet your accusers.  Fortunately, you have no Burke against you.’