"He is in love with Lady Lakeden!" It escaped from her lips at last, and then she remained ashen--trembling. Nay, surely he had loved Lady Lakeden in the old days--loved her secretly and despairingly, seeing her often, but too poor to woo her! Moreover, Lady Lakeden had then loved another. "Yes, yes, that is the truth--the truth!" she cried; "And now he has been seeing her again daily, and the old love has been reborn!" A pall descended over Alice's spirit. What a cruel situation! Here was Wyndham pledged to a woman he could not care for, yet in love with another whose whole heart was with the dear husband that had been taken from her. "He is struggling bravely to be true to me--I see it all now--he is breaking his heart. It is my duty to release him from his word--ah! no, no!" She shuddered and covered her face, shaken and shaken. "Even if I gave him his freedom," she argued presently, clinging on to the wreck with might and main, "it would only be freedom to find despair. Lady Lakeden loved her husband. I know she is great and true. She knows he is mine. I trust her--I must trust her--I will pray for strength to trust her. Heaven help me!--Heaven help me!" A terrible pang of jealousy smote her. Detesting herself for it, she tried hard to repress the flood of bitter hatred she felt rising in her against Lady Lakeden. Poor Lady Lakeden! She had suffered enough and was blameless. She could not help it if Wyndham loved her. An overwhelming curiosity to know what manner of woman Lady Lakeden was, took possession of her. Of course, she was young and beautiful. But what colour were her eyes? Were they large and deep and brilliant? What expression had she habitually? What colour was her hair? And was it abundant? And how arranged? Was she slim and tall? How did she dress? And in what costume was Wyndham painting her? Were not these the questions that had been a thousand times on her lips, and yet remained unuttered? And why had she not asked of him these questions as clearly and boldly as she had thought them? Had there been some obscure suspicion in her mind all along, and she had feared to embarrass her affianced husband? Poor Wyndham! She told herself she had the most perfect understanding of his mind. She held him in honour as a noble gentleman, and knew surely that he would fret his heart away rather than wound her by word or deed. She would have put her hand in the fire for the certainty that he would never withdraw from the compact; that he would go through with the marriage, and die rather than relax the effort to simulate perfect happiness in their after life.