“It is not,” he thought, as he lowered the lamp in the library, and opening the window, drew an easy-chair near it and lighting his pipe, settled himself to think. “He is growing like her.” It was a dark night—moonless, but clear. The stars were brilliant. Obscurity lent a charm to the blackened shrubs in the so-called gardens at the back of the house. The forms of the opposite houses were vaguely defined against the ebon blue. Hugh tried to recall nights such as this, when he and his wife strolled into the pinewoods, and Lilia talked love to him as she leant upon his arm. He tried to recall the tones of her voice, but could not. He tried to remember the expression of her eyes, but, to his horror—for to-day he would have sacrificed much for a keen recollection of the past—when he thought of Lilia’s face, he seemed to see the pathetic beauty of Mercedes; when he thought of Lilia’s voice, he seemed to hear Mercedes when she last spoke to him. “I am a fickle wretch!” he told himself, bitterly. “I have forgotten the child who loved me better than she loved her God!” He was attempting to do what he had never since dared to attempt—to recall in all its torturing details the closing rebellious scene of Lilia’s short life—when he heard a tap at the door, and “May I come in?” in Ralph’s familiar tones. He laid down his pipe with a sigh, and went to the door. He would send Ralph away—he was not in a humour to talk. On opening the door, he saw Ralph—and two women, one of whom turned to her companion and said a few words in a low voice, then coolly passed him and walked into his room. He recognised her at once, cloaked and veiled though she was. Still, he stood at the door, hesitating; his heart seemed to stand still at such unparalleled audacity. Only when, removing her veil, she said, almost impatiently, “Please shut the door,” did he seem to recover the right use of his senses. “I thought—you were very ill,” he said, coming towards her. “I am,” said Mercedes, throwing up her veil. She certainly looked like death: her face pallid, her features sunken, her great eyes dimmed. “This is terrible—you should not have come!” said Hugh, passionately, stirred by the sight of the face which had bewitched him, bereft of its exquisite beauty. “This is worse than imprudence!” He drew a chair for her near the writing-table, turned up the lamp, and pulled down the blind, half indignant that his love—oh! when he saw her he felt she was his love, and nothing else—that this cruel love of his, who had caused him such throes, should have lowered herself thus, and have forgotten her high estate and womanly dignity to come to him! But half despairing—for he saw nothing but an abyss—an abyss of shame for her, of dishonour for him, in this. “_Why_ did you come?” he asked her, when his emotion permitted him to think. “It is madness—madness—for you to come here! And at this hour!”