Hugh was excited out of recognition of his former half-scornful, half-blase self.  That woman must be his wife.  She would save him from himself, this cynical, restless self, which never remained in one stay.  The half-acknowledged weakness in his nature unconsciously flung itself upon her strength, a strength which had been tried.  She would love him, and uphold him.  There would be no more yielding to circumstances if that pure, strong soul were close beside him.  He would lean upon her, and the ugly by-paths of these last years would know him no more.  Her presence would leaven his whole life.  In the momentary insanity, which was perhaps, after all, only a prophetic intuition, he had no fears, no misgivings.  He thought that with that face it was not possible that she could be so wicked as to refuse him.

“She will marry me,” he said to himself.  “She must.”

Lady Newhaven touched him gently on the arm.

“I dared not speak to you before,” she said.  “Nearly every one has gone.  Will you take me down to supper?  I am tired out.”

He stared at her, not recognizing her.

“Have I vexed you?” she faltered.

And with a sudden horrible revulsion of feeling he remembered.  The poor chromo had fallen violently from its nail.  But the nail remained—­ready.  He took her into the supper-room and got her a glass of champagne.  She subsided on to a sofa beside another woman, vaguely suspecting trouble in the air.  He felt thankful that Rachel had already gone.  Dick, nearly the last, was putting on his coat, arranging to meet Lord Newhaven the following morning at his club.  They had been in Australia together, and were evidently old friends.

Lord Newhaven’s listless manner returned as Dick marched out.  Hugh had got one arm in his coat.  An instinct of flight possessed him, a vague horror of the woman in diamonds furtively watching him under her lowered eyelids through the open door.

“Oh, Scarlett!” said Lord Newhaven, detaining him languidly, “I want three minutes of your valuable time.  Come into my study.”

“Another cross-bow for Westhope Abbey?” said Hugh, trying to speak unconcernedly, as he followed his host to a back room on the ground floor.  Lord Newhaven was collecting arms for the hall of his country-house.

“No; much simpler than those elaborate machines,” said the older man, turning on the electric light.  Hugh went in, and Lord Newhaven closed the door.

Over the mantel-shelf were hung a few old Japanese inlaid carbines, and beneath them an array of pistols.

“Useless now,” said Lord Newhaven, touching them affectionately.  “But,” he added, with a shade more listlessness than before, “Society has become accustomed to do without them, and does ill without them, but we must conform to her.”  Hugh started slightly, and then remained motionless.  “You observe these two paper lighters, Scarlett?  One is an inch shorter than the other.  They have been waiting on the mantel-shelf for the last month, till I had an opportunity of drawing your attention to them.  I am sure we perfectly understand each other.  No name need be mentioned.  All scandal is avoided.  I feel confident you will not hesitate to make me the only reparation one man can make another in the somewhat hackneyed circumstances in which we find ourselves.”