“I mean that your spite towards Mr. Conway only emanates from the knowledge that your wife loved him as she will never care for any other man in her life!” Trixy says defiantly, though her blue eyes quail a little as they meet his. “And you may tell her from me, that the sooner she forgets him the better, for he does not care for her--_that_,” and she snaps her finger scornfully. “He cares for _you_, no doubt!” Lord Delaval answers quietly, though his whole frame trembles with outraged pride and mortification. “But mark my words, his love will drag you down to the lowest depths, and----” he pauses, lays a hand on her shoulder, and speaks slowly and deliberately; “when he has got hold of the money poor old Stubbs was fool enough to settle on you, my dear Trixy, he will fling you to the devil!” And without another word he leaves the room. But Trixy’s words have raised up a feeling in his heart about his wife which cannot fail to build up a wall of reserve and suspicion. It is in the dusk of the evening when he returns after two days’ absence, but the firelight is bright enough to show him the gladness in Zai’s face as he enters the room. Lavater himself could not find any guile in it, but jealousy and suspicion know no reason. “My darling! my darling!” she cries, throwing herself into his arms, and holding up her sweet lips for his kiss, but he puts her aside quietly, and, amazed at his manner, she stands a little apart. “What are you doing in the dark here?” he asks, in a cold, cutting voice. “Dreaming of the old days?” “I don’t understand what ails you!” she falters. “I was sitting here, wondering when you would come back, for it has been so dull, so miserable without you! but now you _have_ come back, you are so strange, Delaval!” “Light those candles,” he orders abruptly. She goes up to the mantel-piece and obeys him. The tapers shine down full on her chesnut hair, her pure sweet face, her pathetic grey eyes. “Now I can see you,” he says curtly, inwardly moved by her exceeding fairness, but outwardly cold and stern. “Well, why don’t you ask for news of Trixy?” “I forgot about her,” she answers gently. “I was thinking about you.” “About _me_! as if you ever gave me a thought!” he sneers. “I hate to be fooled.” “Fooled!” she repeats. “Oh! Delaval, what have I done to make you say such things?” “Done! why you have married me, loving that scoundrel Conway!” he blurts furiously. “Nice thing it is for a man to know every day and night of his life that his wife is eating her heart out for a fellow like that!” She has slid down on the floor by this time, and looks up at him with a blanched, scared face, and piteous eyes. It seems to her that in this moment the love she has learned to look upon as her dearest, _dearest_ possession is gone out of her grasp. Delaval _must_ hate her, or he could not glare at her like this, he could not say such awful, _awful_ things.