well? She came in looking radiant, and took her seat at the table with all her usual composure. Lady Hetherington looked at her in surprise, and said, "Anything the matter, Caroline?"
"The matter, Margaret! Nothing in the world. Why?"
"You told Mr. Joyce to come in to luncheon without you, and Thomas said you had gone up-stairs. I feared you had one of your faint attacks!"
"Thanks for your sympathy! No! I knew Mr. Joyce would be leaving almost directly after luncheon, and I had a letter to write which I want him to be good enough to take town for me. So I seized the only chance I had, and ran off to write it."
"Deuced odd that!" said Lord Hetherington; "here's British post-office, greatest institution in the country. Rowland Hill, and that kind of thing; take your letters everywhere for a penny—penny, by Jove, and yet you'll always find women want fellows to make postmen of themselves, and carry their letters themselves."
"This is a special letter, West," said Lady Caroline. "You don't understand!"
"Oh yes, I do," said his lordship with a chuckle; "women's letters all special letters, hey, hey? order to the haberdasher for a yard of ribbon, line to Mitchell's for stalls at the play; all special, hey, Mr. Joyce, hey?"
When luncheon was over Joyce imagined that Lady Caroline would return with him to the library, and renew their conversation. He was accordingly much surprised, when she suggested to Lord Hetherington that he should show Mr. Joyce the alterations which were about to be made in the park. His lordship was only too glad to be mounted on his hobby, and away they went, not returning until it was time for Joyce to start for the station. He did not see Lady Hetherington again, but his lordship, in great delight at the manner in which his agricultural discourse had been listened to was very warm in his adieux, and expressed his hope that they would meet in town. "Politics always laid aside at the dinner-table, Mr. Joyce, hey, hey?" and Lady Caroline, after bidding him farewell, placed a note in his hand, saying "This was the letter I spoke of!" He glanced at it and saw it was addressed to himself, and the next instant the carriage started. Addressed to himself! Did she not say at luncheon that she had been writing a note which she wanted him to take to town for her, and yet there was the address, Walter Joyce, Esq., in her bold firm hand. There must be an enclosure which he was to deliver or to post! And then he did what he might have done at first—broke open the seal of the envelope and took out the contents. One sheet of note paper, with these words:
"I think you will be doing rightly in acting as you propose. Miss Creswell is handsome, clever, and exceptionally 'thorough.' From what I have seen of her I should think she would make you an excellent helpmate, and you know I should not say this were I not tolerably certain about it. I may not see you again for a few weeks, as I detest this specially cold spring, and I shall probably run away to Torquay, or perhaps even to Nice, but letters to Chesterfield-street will always find me, and I shall always have the warmest and deepest interest in your welfare. Good-bye. C. M."
"She is a woman of extraordinary mental, calibre," said Joyce to himself, as he refolded the note and placed it in his pocket. "She grasps a subject immediately, thinks it through at once, and writes an unmistakable opinion in a few terse lines. A wonderful woman! I've no doubt she had made up her mind, and had written that note before she came down to luncheon, though she did not give it to me until just now."
Walter Joyce was Wrong. The interval between leaving him and her arrival in the dining-room had been passed by Lady Caroline on her bed, where she fell, prone, as the door closed behind her. She lay there, her face buried in the pillow, her hands tightly clasped behind her head, her hair escaped from its knot, and creeping down her back, her heart beating wildly. Ah, what minutes of agony and humiliation, of disappointment and self-contempt! It had come upon her very suddenly, and had found her unprepared. She had never dared to analyse her feeling for Joyce; knew of its existence, but did not know, or would not admit to herself, what it was. Tried to persuade herself that it was "interest" in him; but laughed contemptuously at the poor deceit when she found her heart beating double pace as she read of his progress at the election, or her cheek flaming and her lip quivering as she did battle against Lady Hetherington's occasional impertinences about him. Those were the signs of something more than interest—of love,
