"Uncle Langton, I object to your calling names," she says, distinctly. "Mr. Charteris is my husband. I insist that you shall respect that fact." "A pretty husband," he mutters. "No one shall blame him in my hearing," she goes on with shy, pretty dignity. "After all, it was unfair to hang an unloved wife like a millstone around his neck." "You know all," Mr. Langton mutters, darkly, "but where the deuce you found out is beyond my ken. If I knew, I'd shoot the fellow that told you. Well, are you ready to go back to the mountains to-morrow? "No, oh, no," she clasps her small hands in anguish. "Oh, uncle, you promised to leave me your fortune. Give me only just enough money to follow Vane across the ocean, and I'll resign all the rest!" "What, you obstinate little vixen! You are quite determined to follow him?" "I _must_, uncle. Oh, you do not know how much depends on my seeing him!" "And you would cross the great 'herring-pond' alone? I should think you would be frightened at the thought, you, a green little country girl. Who knows where Vane may cast his lines? Perhaps among the frog-eating Frenchmen, or the garlicky Italians. Can you speak French?" "Like a native," she responds, with an arch little _moue_. "Italian?" "Perfectly, and Spanish, too. You know I get my living by my learning," she laughs, trying hard to be her own bright, careless self. He is plainly delighted. "Very well, you shall go," he replies. "A steamer sails to-morrow. We will go in her." "_You_," she cries, with incredulous joy. "It will be too wearisome for you. You are so old." "Not a bit," contemptuously. "Do you think I will let you go alone?" CHAPTER XI. The _Sea Gull_ wings her flight blithely and rapidly across the "dark blue waves," as if she were not freighted with the heaviest heart that ever beat in breast of mortal man. For Vane Charteris, although his passionately longed-for revenge has come to him in such strange and subtle fashion, is a most unhappy man. Mingled with his almost fierce joy at the speedy retribution that has been dealt out to Maud, his false love, is a stinging, unconquerable remorse that pursues him like an evil spirit, although he cannot bring himself to repentance for what he has done. A shuddering horror takes possession of his soul when he thinks of the cloud of shame and disgrace, and impending peril lowering darkly over that golden head he has loved so dearly, but his passionate anger and resentment are stronger than the languid, admiring affection he had cherished for his fair, queenly-looking betrothed. In the madness of his insulted pride it seems to Vane impossible that he should lift a finger to save the treacherous one from her terrible fate. Arriving in the great, smoky city of London, that is hot and smoky and altogether unbearable, Vane throws himself into whatever excitement is going with an _abandon_ and recklessness altogether unlike himself.