Her memory was her worst enemy; her one refuge from it was in change of occupation and change of scene.
"May I go into the conservatory, Lady Janet ?" she asked.
"Certainly, my dear." She bent her head to her protectress, looked for a moment with a steady, compassionate attention at Horace Holmcroft, and, slowly crossing the room, entered the winter-garden.

The eyes of Horace followed her, as long as she was in view, with a curious contradictory expression of admiration and disapproval.

When she had passed out of sight the admiration vanished, but the disapproval remained.

The face of the young man contracted into a frown: he sat silent, with his fork in his hand, playing absently with the fragments on his plate.
"Take some French pie, Horace," said Lady Janet.
"No, thank you." "Some more chicken, then ?" "No more chicken." "Will nothing tempt you ?" "I will take some more wine, if you will allow me." He filled his glass (for the fifth or sixth time) with claret, and emptied it sullenly at a draught.

Lady Janet's bright eyes watched him with sardonic attention; Lady Janet's ready tongue spoke out as freely as usual what was passing in her mind at the time.
"The air of Kensington doesn't seem to suit you, my young friend," she said.