“I should like to call upon her,” said Lady Hermione, “for I agree with you, it is no common sorrow that tires one of life at her age. Ask her if she would like to see me.” He hardly knew why in his heart he felt so grateful to Lady Alden for her kindness. It was not long before he found there was need for a second visit to Mrs. Payton; there was to be a contract drawn up respecting the window, which they both had to sign. Then he mentioned Lady Alden’s desire to know and be of service to her, but, to his surprise, the beautiful Spanish face flushed deeply, the proud, sweet lips quivered, and Mrs. Payton turned quickly away from him. “No,” she replied, abruptly, at last, “it cannot be, Mr. Eyrle. I am deeply, truly grateful to Lady Alden for her kindness; tell her so. But ask her to pardon me; that I can receive no visitors; that, being innocent, I must yet live as though I were guilty; that, being free from guilt, I must pay the price of sin. I cannot see her.” He wondered at her agitation, at the emotion that softened her face and made it so wondrously fair. “What has this woman done?” he wondered to himself. “What is her story?” She seemed annoyed at having been betrayed into showing such agitation. She took up the agreement he had brought and read it through, but he saw that her hands trembled so violently she could with difficulty hold the paper. “What quaint names we both have, Mr. Eyrle,” she said, as she took up the pen to sign the paper; “mine is Juliet.” “A beautiful name,” he replied; “one of Shakespeare’s sweetest and most gentle heroines. The very sound of it is to me like a strain of music.” “It has been so travestied,” she interrupted, “it seems to me that the name Juliet instantly brings to mind a love-sick girl.” He laughed. “At least,” he said, “that could never apply to you.” There was the faintest ripple of a smile on her face. “No! a cold, hard name would have suited me best,” she said. “Yet I have had a cruel love and a cruel awakening.” He saw that she was speaking to herself, rather than to him. “You have a strange, old-world name,” she said. “I see it here--Kenelm. It is one that has been in use in your family for generations back, I suppose?” He was struck by the musical way in which she pronounced it. There was a pretty, piquant, foreign accent about her English that was very charming. “Pardon me,” he said, abruptly, “are you an English lady?” Again the hot flush rippled over her face, disturbing its pale quiet, as a warm sunbeam disturbs a deep-sleeping lake, flushing it into greater beauty and warmer life. “I am not English,” she replied. “I wish I were; I should not then be so quick to feel, so sensitive, so keen of anguish. My mother was a Spanish lady; my first few happiest years were spent in Spain.” “I thought so,” said Mr. Eyrle, and then she looked frankly at him.