'Nonsense, my dear. You do not expect your husband to be an angel, I suppose. Only silly middle-class girls who read novels do that. It will do you no harm to know that the man is no better than his neighbours. And I am sure he is no worse. I am speaking, in fact, for your own good. My dear child, Alec ran after the woman years ago. She was rich then, and used to go about. Certain houses do not mind who enter within their gates. They lived in Palace Gardens, and Monsieur le Papa was rich--oh! rich _à millions_--and the daughter was sugar-sweet and as innocent as an angel--fluffy hair, all tangled and rebellious--you know the kind--and large blue, wondering eyes, generally lowered until the time came for lifting them in the faces of young men. It was deadly, my dear. I believe she might have married anybody she pleased. There was the young Earl of Silchester--he wanted her. What a fool she was not to take him! No; she was spoony on Alec Feilding----' 'Oh! I must not!' cried Armorel again. 'My dear, I'm telling you. Her papa went smash--poor thing!--a grand, awful, impossible smash; other people's money mixed up in it. A dozen workhouses were filled with the victims, I believe. That kind of smash out of which it is impossible to pull yourself anyhow. Killed himself, therefore. Went out of the world without invitation by means of a coarse, vulgar, common piece of two-penny rope, tied round his great fat neck. I remember him. What did the girl do? Ran away from society: went on the stage as one of a travelling company. Why, I saw her myself three years ago at Leamington. I knew her instantly. "Aha!" I said, "there's Miss Fluffy, with the appealing, wondering eyes. Poor thing! Here is a come down in the world!" Now I find her here--your companion--a widow--widow of one Jerome Elstree deceased--artist, I am told. I never heard of the gentleman, and I confess I have my doubts as to his existence at all.' Armorel ceased to offer any further opposition to the stream.