“I pleased myself, I suppose,” she said, tossing her head; then added, with matter-of-fact composure, “Besides, I was sick of him. He was never the least amusing, and the most fault-finding, ill-tempered--One’s spelling, and one’s looks, and one’s manners, and one’s dress--he was never satisfied. Then,” she went on, sinking her voice--“I don’t deny the truth--I knew he’d never take me home and let people know I was his real wife. All I could have got out of him would have been an allowance, to live in some hole and corner. I preferred my freedom to that, and the power of getting a little amusement. I don’t mind work, bless you--not work of this kind--it amuses me; and if I had been left in peace here when I was comfortable, I shouldn’t have interfered--I should have let things take their chance.” “In all this,” said Edgar, feeling his throat dry and his utterance difficult, “you consider only yourself, no one else.” “Who else should I consider?” said Miss Lockwood. “I should like to know who else considered me? Not a soul. I had to take care of myself, and I did. Why should not his other wife have her wits about her as well as me?” Then there was a pause. Edgar was too much broken down by this disclosure, too miserable to speak; and she sat holding up the book between her face and the fire, with a flush upon her pale cheeks, sometimes fanning herself, her nose in the air, her finely-cut profile inspired by impertinence and worldly selfishness, till it looked ugly to the disquieted gazer. Few women could have been so handsome, and yet looked so unhandsome. As he looked at her, sickening with the sight, Edgar felt bitterly that this woman was indeed Arthur Arden’s true mate--they matched each other well. But Clare, his sister--Clare, whom there had been no one to guard--who, rich in friends as she was, had no brother, no guardian to watch over her interests--poor Clare! The only thing he seemed able to do for her now was to prove her shame, and extricate her, if he could extricate her, from the terrible falseness of her position. His heart ached so that it gave him a physical pain. He had kept up no correspondence with her whom he had looked upon during all the earlier part of his life as his sister, and whom he felt in his very heart to be doubly his sister the moment that evil came in her way. The thing for him to consider now was what he could do for her, to save her, if possible--though how she could be saved, he knew not, as the story was so circumstantial, and apparently true. But, at all events, it could not but be well for Clare that her enemy’s cause was in her brother’s hands. Good for Clare!--would it be good for the other woman, to whom he had promised to do justice? Edgar almost felt his heart stand still as he asked himself this question. Justice--justice must be done, in any case, there could be no doubt of that. If Clare’s position was untenable, she must not be allowed to go on in ignorance, for misery