“They tell me half the men in London have gone mad over you,” were her first words following the train of her own thoughts, and she liked her visitor none the less, that world-loving little old woman, because she could not but acknowledge the reasonableness of the madness of which she accused her of being the object.

“I care very little for the men in London, Lady Kynaston,” answered Vera, quietly.

“My dear, what do you care for?” asked her ladyship, with earnestness, and Vera understood that she was expected to state her business.

“Lady Kynaston, I have come to ask you about your son,” she answered, simply.

“About John?”

“Of course, it is Sir John I mean,” she said, quickly, a hot flush rising for one instant to her face, and dying away rapidly again, to leave her a trifle paler than before.  “I know,” she continued, with a little hesitation—­“I know that I have no right to inquire—­but I cannot forget all that is past—­all his goodness and generosity to me.  I shall never forget it; and oh, I hear such dreadful things of him, that he is ill—­that he is talking of going to Australia.  Oh, Lady Kynaston, is it all true?”

She had clasped her hands together, and bent a little forward towards the old lady in her earnestness; she looked at her piteously, almost entreatingly.

“Does she love him after all?” thought Lady Kynaston, as she watched her; and the meaning of the whole story of her son’s love seemed more unfathomable than ever.

“John is neither well nor happy,” she said, aloud.  “I think, Vera, you must know the reason of it better than any of us.”

“It is my fault—­my doing,” cried the girl, with a ring of deep regret in her voice.  “Yes,” she added, looking away sadly out of the open window; “that is why I have come.  Do you know that I saw him once?  I don’t think he saw me—­it was in the Park one morning.  He looked so aged, so saddened, I realized then what I had done—­his face haunts me.”

“Vera, you could alter all that if you chose,” said the old lady, earnestly.

A sudden flush sprang to her face; she looked startled.

“You don’t suppose I came here to say that, Lady
Kynaston?”

“No, my dear; but I have decided to say it to you.  Vera, I entreat you to tell me the truth.  What is it that stands between you and John?”

She was silent, looking down upon her hands that lay crossed one over the other upon her knee.

“I cannot tell you, Lady Kynaston,” she answered, at length, in a low voice.

Lady Kynaston sighed; she was a little disappointed.

“And you cannot, marry him?”

Vera shook her head.

“No, it would not be right.”

The old lady bent forward and laid her hand upon her visitor’s arm.

“Forgive me for asking you.  Do you love some one else? is it that?”

She bent her head silently.