“Be sure you come to me the first thing to-morrow,” said Gwendolen to her sister. “I shall stay in till you come, and I can drive you anywhere you want to go for your shopping--Stores, Lewis and Allanby’s--anywhere. I want to show you my drawing-room. I have changed everything in it. You’ll hardly know it again.” She and her husband followed the departing guests to the hall, saw them get into the little brougham and drive off into the night; and then Gwendolen put her arm through her husband’s with a soft clinging affectionateness, as of a Persian cat, that knew when it was well housed and taken good care of. “Poor Isa! how awfully ill she looks,” sighed Gwendolen. “Ghastly. Are all women alike, I wonder, Gwen?” “I think you ought to know what kind of woman I am by this time,” retorted his wife, tossing up her head. * * * * * Martin Disney and his wife were alone in their sitting-room at the hotel, somewhat bare and unhomelike, as hotel rooms must always be, despite the march of civilization which has introduced certain improvements. He had made a pretence of dining in the coffee-room below, and she had taken some tea and toast beside the fire; and now at ten o’clock they were sitting on each side of the hearth, face to face, pale and thoughtful, and strangely silent. “Isola, have you forgiven me?” he asked at last. “With all my heart. Oh, Martin, I could never be angry with you--never. You have been so good to me. How could I be angry?” “But you have the right to be angry. I ought not to have doubted. I ought to have believed your word against all the world; but that man raised a doubting devil in me. I was mad with fears and suspicions, wild and unreasonable--as I suppose jealousy generally is. I had never been jealous before. Great God! what a fearful passion it is when a man gives himself up to it. I frightened you by my vehemence, and then your scared looks frightened me. I mistook fear for guilt. Isola, my beloved, let me hear the truth from your own lips--the assurance--the certainty,” he cried with impassioned fervour, getting up and going over to her, looking down into the pale, upturned face with those dark, earnest eyes which always seemed to search the mysteries of her heart. “Let there be no shadow of uncertainty or distrust between us. I have heard from your sister that you were with her when you said you were. That is much. It settles for that vile cad’s insinuated slander; but it is not enough. Let the assurance come to me from your lips--from yours alone. Tell me--by the God who will judge us both some day--Are you my own true wife?” “I am, Martin--I am your own true wife,” she answered, with an earnestness that thrilled him. “I have not a thought that is not of you. I love you with all my heart and mind. Is not that enough?” “And you have never wronged me? You have been true and pure always? I call upon God to hear your words, Isola. Is that true?” “Yes, yes; it is true.”