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LOVE

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      Mrs. Beale stopped her chair and stepped out.

      "Lord Lyndwood," she said softly, and beckoned him with her fan.

      The shifting idle crowds of the Mall divided them, but if her voice was lost on the gay summer air (already so laden with whispers and laughter) he saw the gesture and came over to her.

      Her languishing eyes were reproachful as he kissed her hand.

      "La! I have seen so little of you! Will you walk on with me?"

      "Is there need to ask, my dear?"

      She tossed her head, her cheeks were suffused with colour. As they sauntered side by side under the lime trees her glance searched for rivals to witness and envy.

      "I am to play Statira to-night."

      "Who is Roxana?" He smiled down at her dark prettiness.

      "Do you care?" she pouted.

      "Not at all."

      "'Tis Miss Fenton in an ugly red gown from Paris," she informed him; "a hoyden!"

      Rose Lyndwood looked languidly before him. She touched his black velvet sleeve with scented fingers.

      "Will you come?" she demanded, her regard full of fire and entreaty.

      "To-night?"

      "I am not playing to-morrow."

      "Then I will come to-night."

      She flounced her white skirts out of the dust.

      "Only come if it please you."

      "Why, it pleases me," smiled Lord Lyndwood.

      They were nearing St. James's Park. Very pleasantly the evening light glimmered in the fresh leaves of the limes and chestnuts and lay in flakes of gold on the lake, where the white ducks swam. Long pale shadows trailed over the gravel walks and close grass lawns; here and there the red and pink of the hawthorns starred the green.

      For a little while the actress was silent. When they reached the edge of the water she looked up at her companion; her wide straw hat cast half her face into the shade and the red strings tied at her throat showed off the whiteness of her round chin.

      "You are going to be married, I am told."

      "The town knows it," he replied.

      "At last!" laughed Frances Beale. "Well, I wish you happiness."

      He turned a glance on her that checked her laughter.

      "Thank you, my dear," he said.

      They had paused at the margin of the lake; the gold ripples ran like a pathway from the toe of Mrs. Beale's little shoe to the tall poplars on the opposite bank, through the dark leaves of which the sun blazed, cloudless to its setting.

      "You are very fortunate," said Mrs. Beale, gazing at the water. "The wealthy Miss Hilton. La, there has been a power of men after her swinging fortune!"

      "That isn't amusing," answered Rose Lyndwood. "I think, my dear, that you had better leave the subject."

      "Am I bound to be amusing?" she demanded.

      He lifted his hat to a passing acquaintance.

      "'Tis your profession," he replied lazily.

      She shrugged her shoulders.

      "You endeavour to put me off—you think me a fool, no doubt; but I know what every fool knows, that old Hilton has been playing for you for a year and more." Her accent was violent and slightly vulgar; she pulled tempestuously at some unhappy roses at her breast and scattered them on the ground. "That doll!" she cried. Then her tone softened. "Well, 'tis the way of the world," and she sighed.

      One pale fair cloud hovered above the poplars opposite. Lord Lyndwood looked at it as he answered:

      "There is no remark to be made about such a commonplace affair save this, that the lady is too good for me."

      Mrs. Beale laughed.

      "Too good—yes! You aren't seen with her much."

      "Miss Hilton is indisposed," he answered. "And, by Gad, Fanny, I'll not have you speak in such fashion—of her or me!"

      She wilted at once beneath the hint of his anger.

      "Why, I meant no harm," she breathed quickly. "Forget about it, and come to see Statira to-night. You promised."

      He rewarded her submission with a smile.

      "I will be there from the rise of the curtain."

      They sauntered on again. Mrs. Beale found consolation for much in the glances bestowed on her companion and by the reflection that half the town must have seen whom she walked with, yet this was only a passing pleasure merely softening deep and sad feeling.

      "Come and tell Statira that she was better than Roxana, afterwards," she said. "We so seldom see you in the Fields now that I think ye must go to Drury Lane."

      A sudden breeze arose, ruffling the water and blowing the ends of his powdered hair on to her shoulder.

      "I have been occupied of late, in truth," he answered.

      "With Miss Hilton?" she could not resist saying.

      "With my approaching marriage—yes." Then he laughed sweetly. "Let Statira expect me to-night after the play."

      "Statira will be proud." Her eyes glowed. "La, I shall act well to-night!"

      "As always."

      "Ah, no!" she answered almost bitterly. "I cannot act. I can rant upon the boards, 'tis all. When most I wish to disguise my feelings, then do I find how poor an actress I am."

      "Do you wish to act for my benefit, my dear?" asked Lord Lyndwood lightly.

      She gave him a dark bright glance.

      "Sometimes, maybe. Now the sun is setting, will you see me to my chair?"

      They made slow way back through the thinning crowd.

      Mrs. Beale was suddenly gay.

      "What flowers will you bring me to-night? When last I played Statira, Lord Sandys sent me more yellow roses than I could wear in a month. The Fenton was furious; but you, nothing from you!"

      "I was in Kent." His words were the merest excuse, but his eyes made amends. "I will redeem myself to-night."

      Her lids drooped.

      "Whatever you may send I will wear."

      He sighed.

      "What can London yield fair enough?"

      "Anything you have chosen," she answered in a low voice. Then abruptly she looked up at him. "Don't you know it?"

      "My hopes were, maybe, so presumptuous."

      They reached her chair under the limes. The golden dust of evening hovered in the chilling air; overhead the sky was a fading blue, and the fragrant leaves shivered together.

      The grey eyes of Rose Lyndwood laughed into the fair face of Frances Beale, and for a moment she forgot that there were many to mark it.

      "Till to-night, au revoir," she said, and her lips quivered.

      He had possession of her hand for some seconds. When at last she drew up the glass and her chair was borne away down the Mall, he sauntered idly in the opposite direction.

      The long walks emptied as the sky filled with deep and pure gold and the encroaching shadows merged into one darkness over the park.

      Rose

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