Mrs. Manson laid a purple finger on her lips. “Nothing directly—but does she suspect? Who can tell? The truth is, Mr. Archer, I have been waiting to see you. From the moment I heard of the firm stand you had taken, and of your influence over her, I hoped it might be possible to count on your support—to convince you . . .”

“That she ought to go back? I would rather see her dead!” cried the young man violently.

“Ah,” the Marchioness murmured, without visible resentment. For a while she sat in her arm-chair, opening and shutting the absurd ivory fan between her mittened fingers; but suddenly she lifted her head and listened.

“Here she comes,” she said in a rapid whisper; and then, pointing to the bouquet on the sofa: “Am I to understand that you prefer that, Mr. Archer? After all, marriage is marriage . . . and my niece is still a wife. . .