‘The presiding divinity, Sir Frederick? A painted divinity! We gave her a fresh coat of paint every spring. Poor old Aphrodite with her shell—she used to stand in the middle of the fishpond. But you forget, Sir Frederick, that she had lost her nose, and even a divinity hardly looks so charming without a nose as with one.’ Sir Frederick gave a sniff, and replied in his loftiest manner: ‘When I made use of the term “presiding divinity,” I need hardly say that I was referring to yourself, Lady Dimsdale.’ ‘I really beg your pardon, Sir Frederick, but no one ever called me a divinity before. Do you know I rather like it.’ She led the way, as if unconsciously, to a wide-spreading yew, round the bole of which a low seat had been fixed. Here, in the grateful amplitude of shade, she sat down, and the Baronet seated himself a little distance away. It may be that she had some suspicion with regard to Sir Frederick’s errand this morning, and had made up her mind to get it over and have done with it at once and for ever. ‘Now for the plunge!’ said the Baronet to himself as he sat down. The plumage of his self-conceit had been somewhat ruffled both by her words and manner; but whatever temporary annoyance he might feel, it would never do to betray it at such an all-important crisis. ‘You are still the same Laura Langton that you were during those sunny days at the vicarage,’ he began in what he considered his most insinuating manner. ‘The same charm, the same power of fascination exist still. A happy time—at least for one of those two. But the ending was not a happy one—no, anything rather than that.’ ‘For which of the two people concerned was the ending not a happy one, Sir Frederick?’ Her coldly contemptuous tone touched him to the quick. A deep flush mounted to his face; for a moment or two he could not trust himself to answer her. ‘I thank you, Lady Dimsdale,’ he said at last. ‘The reproof implied by your words is a just one. To her, no doubt, the end was seen from the beginning—a dramatic effect to be worked up to from the opening of the comedy. To him it came as a thunder-clap, as a stab from a hand that a moment before had been pressed to his lips. Day after day he had been led on by eyes that seemed ever to brighten at his coming; by smiles that seemed ever to be those of welcome; by low-voiced replies; by a hundred pleasant lures, till at length the moment came when his silence found itself a tongue. A few burning words, and everything was told. The answer?—A mocking laugh, a scornful dismissal. His paradise had been the paradise of a fool. He had helped a pretty girl to pass away a few weeks in a dull country-house—and that was all!’ Sir Frederick spoke in low, almost impassioned accents. Any third person who might have chanced to overhear him would have been justified in assuming that he had been cruelly jilted.