She tossed her head in a wild, scornful way, as if on the verge of being swept from her feet by some whirlwind of passion. "And so," said her husband, after a long silence, "you do not choose to answer my questions as to Major Willard?" That was unwisely pressed. In her heart of hearts Irene loathed this man. His name was an offence to her. Never, since the night he had forced himself into her carriage, had she even looked into his face. If he appeared in the room where she happened to be, she did not permit her eyes to rest upon his detested countenance. If he drew near to her, she did not seem to notice his presence. If he spoke to her, as he had ventured several times to do, she paid no regard to him whatever. So far as any response or manifestation of feeling on her part was concerned, it was as if his voice had not reached her ears. The very thought of this man was a foul thing in her mind. No wonder that the repeated reference by her husband was felt as a stinging insult. "If you dare to mention that name again in connection with mine," she said, turning almost fiercely upon him, "I will--" She caught the words and held them back in the silence of her wildly reeling thoughts. "Say on!" Emerson was cool, but not sane. It was madness to press his excited young wife now. Had he lost sense and discrimination? Could he not see, in her strong, womanly indignation, the signs of innocence? Fool! fool! to thrust sharply at her now! "My father!" came in a sudden gush of strong feeling from the lips of Irene, as the thought of him whose name was thus ejaculated came into her mind. She struck her hands together, and stood like one in wild bewilderment. "My father!" she added, almost mournfully; "oh, that I had never left you!" "It would have been better for you and better for me." No, he was not sane, else would no such words have fallen from his lips. Irene, with a slight start and a slight change in the expression of her countenance, looked up at her husband: "You think so?" Emerson was a little surprised at the way in which Irene put this interrogation. He looked for a different reply. "I have said it," was his cold answer. "Well." She said no more, but looked down and sat thinking for the space of more than a minute. "I will go back to Ivy Cliff." She looked up, with something strange in the expression of her face. It was a blank, unfeeling, almost unmeaning expression. "Well." It was Emerson's only response. "Well; and that is all?" Her tones were so chilling that they came over the spirit of her husband like the low waves of an icy wind. "No, that is not all." What evil spirit was blinding his perceptions? What evil influence pressing him on to the brink of ruin? "Say on." How strangely cold and calm she remained! "Say on," she repeated. Was there none to warn him of danger? "If you go a third time to your father--" He paused. "Well?" There was not a quiver in her low, clear, icy tone.