‘It isn’t true,’ she answered hotly. ‘You know that it was my father who separated us and forbade your coming to the house again. Else, perhaps, there is no knowing I might have been your wife at the present moment. But as for being, as you express it, “desperately in love,” you know that is untrue--that it is not in my nature--that I am not one of your gushing, spooney girls, who are ready to jump down the throat of the first man who looks at them, and never was.’ ‘Well, I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ said Mr Portland. ‘Certain little epistles in my possession tell a different tale. Most of them are “spooney” enough in all conscience. At least, if you do not call them so, I should like to see the ones you do!’ ‘You have not returned those letters to me yet,’ she answered quickly. ‘I trust to your honour to do so, without reading them again.’ ‘Why should I read them again, _ma chère_, when they no longer interest me? I know you women like to think you can chuck your victims over, and still keep them writhing at your feet; but I am not one of that sort. Once repulsed is enough for me. Your ladyship need never fear that I shall ever trouble you again. But don’t say you never were one of the “gushing, spooney girls,” or you may tempt me to make you retract your words. Perhaps you have quite forgotten what you wrote in those letters?’ he demanded meaningly. ‘Yes, quite,’ she answered, though with a sickening faint remembrance of a great deal of folly; ‘but what does it matter? It is over now on both sides, and we can remain good friends all the same. But I wish you would not make your intimacy with me quite so apparent before other people. It has been noticed by more than one person, and it places me in an unpleasant position. And if it is pointed out to Ilfracombe it might lead to something disagreeable.’ ‘How?’ said her companion. ‘How? Why, by making a quarrel between my husband and myself, of course,’ replied Nora querulously. ‘And would you care about that? He couldn’t take your coronet from you for such a trifle, you know. Even those letters of yours--were they to come to light, he might rub rusty over them, but he couldn’t do anything. When a man marries a woman, he has to ignore all ante-nuptial indiscretions. He would make a jolly row, naturally, and you would have a hot time of it. But you are the Countess of Ilfracombe fast enough, and the Lord Chancellor himself couldn’t unmake you so.’ ‘I know that,’ said Nora. ‘I don’t need you to tell me so. And there is no chance of Ilfracombe seeing the letters either. If you keep your word to me (as I conclude you will), I shall destroy them as soon as they are in my possession. I wish you would send for your dispatch-box, and give them to me at once. I should feel so much more comfortable.’ ‘Why in such a hurry?’ said Mr Portland. ‘I am going home next week, and then you shall have them by registered post, honour bright. Won’t that satisfy you?’