She has lapsed into her flippant gaiety again, and now pauses as if expecting him to inquire into the nature of the other reason to which she alludes; but if so, he does not gratify her. He is still fighting with the horror of that double consciousness. Can this be the woman to whom in that icy winter dawning his whole soul had gone out in such an overpowering passion of pity? And if it be indeed she, has she clean forgotten the sacred agony of their last farewell? Her laugh is still dissonantly jarring on his stunned ear, when, finding it hopeless any longer to wait for questioning on his part, she resumes: 'It is always well to kill two birds with one stone--is not it?' says she, looking hardily into his eyes. 'Pardon the homeliness of the expression! You know that reports reach even quiet places--Harborough, for instance. Well, such a report--a _canard_ probably, but still there was something oddly circumstantial about it--was spreading there yesterday about a--person--I--used--to know--rather well--have some interest in--in fact----' She pauses again; her words have, for the last half of her speech, come draggingly, with a little break between each, and not for one instant does her eye release him. But again he makes no comment. Her breath is coming perceptibly quicker when she next takes up her theme. 'You do not ask what the report was? No? I fear my little tale does not interest you. It would perhaps be civiller on your part if you could pretend that it did; perhaps you will think that it improves as it goes on. Well, the subject of the report is a man; and the report itself--do not you think that it was the simplest plan on my part to come and verify it in person?--is that he is going to take to his bosom a--ha! ha! I never can help laughing when I think of it--a--guess! No; you would never guess--_a sack of pota_----' 'Do not call her names,' says Talbot, for the first time finding his voice, and stretching out his hands, but now hanging so nervelessly at his sides, in authoritative wrathful prohibition; 'do not dare to call her names!' 'Then it _is_ true?' Her laugh, little kin as it had ever had with real merriment, is dead--strangled in her throbbing throat; and she puts up her hand as if she were choking. 'Until you can speak of her with the respect that is her due, I will answer no questions,' he replies sternly. The next moment he sees her stagger in the starlight, and his heart smites him for his cruelty. He makes a hasty movement towards her, thinking that she is going to fall; but before he can reach her she has steadied herself, and faces him, livid, it is true, under her paint, but firm and collected beneath the stars. She has even recovered her laugh.