At Love's Cost

She shot a glance at him and sank into the music-seat languidly. But a

moment afterwards, as if she could not help herself, she was singing a

Tuscan love-song with a subdued passion which thrilled even the _blasé_

audience clustered round her. It thrilled Stafford; but only with the

desire to be near Ida. A desire that became irresistible; and when she

had finished he left the room, caught up his hat and overcoat and went

out of the house.

As he did so, Mr. Falconer walked past him into the smoking-room. Mr.

Griffenberg was alone there, seated in a big arm-chair with a cigar as

black as a hat and as long as a penholder.

Falconer wheeled a chair up to him, and, in his blunt fashion, said: "You are in this railway scheme of Orme's, Griffenberg?" Mr.

Griffenberg nodded.

"And you?"

"Yes," said Falconer, succinctly. "I am joining. I suppose it's all

right; Orme will be able to carry it through?"

Griffenberg emitted a thick cloud of smoke.

"It will try him a bit. It's a question of capital--ready capital. I'm

helping him: got his Oriental shares as cover. A bit awkward for me,

for I'm rather pushed just now--that estate loan, you know."

Falconer nodded. "I know. See here: I'll take those shares from you, if

you like, and if you'll say nothing about it."

Mr. Griffenberg eyed his companion's rugged face keenly.

"What for?" he asked.

Mr. Falconer smiled.

"That's my business," he said. "The only thing that matters to you is,

that by taking the shares off your hands I shall be doing you a

service."

"That's true: you shall have 'em," said Mr. Griffenberg; "but I warn

you it's a heavy lot."

"You shall have a cheque to-morrow," said Mr. Falconer. "Where did you

get that cigar: it takes my fancy?"

Mr. Griffenberg produced his cigar case with alacrity: he liked Mr.

Falconer's way of doing business.

At the moment Stafford left the Villa, Ida was standing by the window

in the drawing-room of Heron Hall. On the table beside her lay a book

which she had thrown down with a gesture of impatience. She was too

restless to read, or to work; and the intense quietude of the great

house weighed upon her with the weight of a tomb.

All day, since she had left Stafford, his words of passionate love had

haunted her. They sang in her ears even as she spoke to her father or

Jessie, or the dogs who followed her about with wistful eyes as if they

were asking her what ailed her, and as if they would help her.