CHAPTER XIX.
THE MARQUIS MEPHISTOPHELES "I am so sorry," she said, softly, "our last evening is spoilt." He shook his head with an effort at gaiety.
"Let us conspire," he said.

"You and I at least will make a struggle." "I am afraid," she said, "that it would be hopeless.

Mother is an absolute wreck, and I saw Lord Arranmore go into the library just now with that terrible white look under his eyes.

I saw it once before.
Ugh!" "After all," he said, "it only means that we shall be honest.
Cheerfulness to-night could only be forced." She laughed softly into his eyes.
"How correct!" she murmured.

"You are improving fast." He turned and looked at her, slim and graceful in her white muslin gown, her fair hair brushed back from her forehead with a slight wave, but drooping low over her ears, a delicate setting for her piquant face.
The dark brown eyes, narrowing a little towards the lids, met his with frank kindliness, her mouth quivered a little as though with the desire to break away into a laugh.