I scorned to pursue the subject. Wilful, wicked, sinful and cunning, as she was, I felt that to a certain extent it would be as well to let her have her way with her tongue. "When you have fully relieved your mind," I said coldly, "I am ready to enter into the business matter which brings us together." But she had not yet done. "Fie!" she exclaimed. "Business--business--business! How often are you going to use that word? Is love a business, then? You can tell me, for you must have had hundreds of sad adventures. I have had very few as yet, but there is time for plenty more. My dear, I positively refuse to enter into our special little affair until you assure me there is no other lady in the case." Compelled to reply, I said, "There is none." She mocked me with a deep sigh, saying, "You have taken a weight off my heart," and then in a brisk tone, "And now, my dear, we will go into matters." She drew her chair close to the table, and produced a dainty little pocket-book, in which she consulted some slips of paper, a few of them covered with figures. "You offer me," she said, "twelve hundred pounds a year, upon conditions which will cover me with disgrace, and make people point at me. Is that correct?" "Not quite," I replied. "You have omitted that you are to live out of England in any name you choose except the name of Holdfast. Your new acquaintances will know nothing of your past life." "It will be a miracle if it is hidden from them," she said, betraying a method in her speech which proved that she had carefully rehearsed what she came prepared to say. "I do not intend to live in a desert. If I am driven by your cruelty from the country I love, and where, with money, a lady may enjoy all the pleasures of life, I shall live on the Continent, in France, Italy, Germany, where I please, but certainly where I can best enjoy myself. English people travel everywhere, and I shall be sure to drop across old acquaintances, or, at least, people who know me at sight. My face is too pretty to be forgotten. Perhaps you will admit that I cannot lose myself entirely, and that Lydia Holdfast, by whatever name she goes, will always be Lydia Holdfast in the eyes of casual or close acquaintances." "I shall not relate my troubles to any one," I observed, as yet ignorant of her intention in adopting this line of argument, "nor need you, if you choose to preserve silence." "Have you not already spoken of what has occurred?" she asked, with a keen glance at me. "Have you not already selected confidants to whom you have poured out false stories of your wrongs?" "No man or woman in the world possesses my confidence. My griefs are sacred."