‘I would take them to her at once and give them her on the promise that she would never be so foolish as to meet you secretly again.’ ‘And you think she would thank you--that she would be grateful?’ ‘_He_ would, if he knew it,’ she replied. ‘Ah, it’s all for _him_ still, though he cast you off, like a worn-out glove. You women are inexplicable creatures. It seems to me that the worse you are treated the closer you stick.’ ‘Never mind that. Will you give me the letters?’ ‘I will, on one condition.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘Nell, do you remember what I said to you once in Grosvenor Square and you were so angry with me for saying? I knew then that Ilfracombe was contemplating marriage, and that you would be left without a home, and I loved you. Yes, you may stare as you like, but it is the truth. Such love as it is in my nature to feel, I have felt, and do feel, for you. I admire you--not only personally, but your courage, your pride, your determination. I admire the ease with which you accepted your equivocal position under Ilfracombe’s roof--the humility with which you deferred to his will, even when it came to leaving you alone in London for four months whilst he gallivanted after Miss Nora Abinger.’ ‘Oh, spare me, Mr Portland, spare me!’ cried Nell,’let the past alone, it is too painful a recollection to me. I know I was furious with you. I had a right to be, but my high spirits are all gone. If it were so, I should not stay to listen now.’ ‘But I am not going to say one word that the most virtuous matron in England might not hear. I repeat that you are the only woman for whom I have ever experienced any genuine feeling, and if you really want to save your late friend from a very painful humiliation (which will inevitably come some day, by the exhibition of those letters), I will give them to you to do with as you will--if you will marry me.’ ‘_What?_’ she exclaimed, starting backward. ‘I mean what I say. I know that my former proposal was a different one, but I have altered my mind since them. I offer to marry you--to give you my name, which is, at all events, that of a gentleman, though I’m afraid a rather shady one, and--Lady Ilfracombe’s letters.’ ‘But Mr Portland, you do not know what you are asking. My heart is not the least changed since those days. Ilfracombe’s conduct--his marriage--have made no difference to me. I wish they had. I wish I had got over my trouble, and could go to you, or any man, with a clear conscience and say, “I love you.” But I cannot, I never shall. My soul is bound up in that of Ilfracombe. He is _my_ husband--not that woman’s. I think of him every day; pray for him every night by that name. I know he has deserted me, but I have never deserted him, and there were reasons in his case that made marriage a necessity. It has not destroyed his love for me; that is as true and strong as ever. And it would be impossible to me, whilst his love lasts, to be any other man’s wife.’