‘Have you seen the new owner of Tresham Court, Conway?’ asks one fellow of his neighbour. ‘What, Sir Roland? Not yet! He is abroad, so I am told, and won’t be home till Christmas!’ ‘By George! Well, if I were the owner of Lady Tresham the country wouldn’t see me that didn’t hold her!’ ‘Is she so handsome then?’ ‘She’s better than handsome! She’s one of the sweetest-looking women I ever saw. I met her at General Carroll’s last week with the dowager.’ ‘Fair or dark?’ ‘Fair as a lily, with glorious golden hair, and great blue eyes as clear as spring water. She’s as graceful as a gazelle, too, and got a voice like a thrush. She said she was awfully out of practice, but she sung better than anyone there.’ ‘I shall get my mother to take me over to Tresham Court,’ says a young dandy in the corner; ‘a pretty woman is not to be despised in Glamorganshire.’ ‘You won’t get anything by that, my boy,’ says the first speaker. ‘Handley Harcourt, the dowager’s nephew, has found her out already, and is there morning, noon, and night.’ Sir Roland is just about to proclaim that the beautiful woman they speak of is his wife, when the last sentence makes him shrink back in his seat instead. He feels ashamed to acknowledge her now. What if the scandal should be true! But no, it is impossible! Juliet has been his wife for eight long years, and faithful to him in thought, word, and deed. He would answer for her fidelity as for his own. _His own!_ At that thought the hot blood courses through Sir Roland’s veins, and mantles in his handsome face. He has _not_ been faithful to her—he acknowledges it with shame—but he will atone as there is a heaven above him.