“Sometimes I should not care if it _did_ all fly through the window,” she goes on, moodily. “Sometimes, Delaval, I cannot help thinking I have paid a little too dear for--for everything.” “What do you mean?” he asks, bluntly. “Did you not choose to marry Stubbs? That being the case, what right have you to complain because your bargain may not be exactly to your taste? If you had not married of your own free will, of course no one could have forced you into it.” “My own free will!” repeats Trixy, scornfully, curving down the corners of her red lips. “I wonder when a man--a man like you--ever comprehends that a woman’s free will, from her very cradle to her grave, means just nothing. No right to complain, haven’t I? Well, I am not complaining. My husband is kind and good to me, better and kinder by far than I deserve; but none the less I suffer more than you would believe I do, if I were fool enough to tell you everything.” Tears rise up in her lovely blue eyes--hot, angry, scorching tears, but she chokes them back. Life is beginning to teach even this little spoiled butterfly some self-control, and that wisdom which is learned only through sad experience. Lord Delaval, susceptible always, is touched even by the beauty and evident unhappiness of his sister-in-law. He leans forward, takes gently the white hand that has dashed away the rebellious tear drops. “Don’t be vexed, Trixy, if I spoke a little roughly just now,” he says, in his pleasantest accents. “You used to like me years ago when you were a child, and although you have out-grown the fondness, I am sure you know that I like you awfully, if it is only for Zai’s sake.” “Delaval, I want you to answer me a question--on your honour, you know. Does Zai love you?” “Love me? My dear Trixy, your question makes me answer rather conceitedly, perhaps; but on my honour I don’t believe any woman loves her husband better than my wife loves me.” “Thank God for that!” she exclaims passionately. He stares at her in surprise. Trixy is not of a devout nature, and it seems to him a little strange also that she should trouble herself earnestly about a sister with whom she has nothing in common, or apparently much affection for. There must be an _arriére pensèe_ in her ejaculation. “Why should you be so thankful that Zai cares for me?” he asks, carelessly, amazed to see her colour come and go swiftly, and the hand he still holds tremble in his. But Trixy drags away her fingers and shrinks back into the furthest corner of her fauteuil. “Oh! I don’t know!” she says, nervously. “I just wanted to hear if she was happy and loved you only.” “Loved me _only_! Why, who _should_ she love else?” he demands, gravely. “No one, of course. You always make me nervous, Delaval, when you turn inquisitor. As a child I hated your questioning propensities.”