“No, no; I have never known him. He has always worn a mask. He is as false as Satan. Don’t talk to me—don’t kiss me, child. You have smeared my face horribly with your kisses and tears. Your pity drives me mad. How can you understand these things—you who have never loved any one? What can you know of what women feel? There, silly fool! you are trembling as if I had hit you,” as Angela withdrew her arms suddenly, and stood aloof. “I have been a virtuous wife, sister, in a town where scarce one woman in ten is true to her marriage vows. I have never sinned against my husband; but I have never loved him. Henri had my heart before I knew what the word, love meant; and in all these years we have loved each other with the purest, noblest affection—at least he made me believe my love was reciprocated. We have enjoyed a most exquisite communion of thought and feeling. His letters—you shall read his letters some day—so noble, so brilliant—all poetry, and chivalry, and wit. I lived upon his letters when fate parted us. And when he followed us to England, I thought it was for my sake that he came—only for me. And to hear that he was her lover—hers—that woman! To know that he came to me—with sweetest words upon his lips—knelt to kiss the tips of my fingers—as if it were a privilege to die for—from her arms, from her caresses—the wickedest woman in England—and the loveliest!” “Dear Hyacinth, it was a childish dream—and you have awakened! You will live to be glad of being recalled from falsehood to truth. Your husband is worth fifty De Malforts, did you but know it. Oh, dearest, give him your heart who ought to be its only master. Indeed he is worthy. He stands apart—an honourable, nobly thinking man in a world that is full of libertines. Be sure he deserves your love.” “Don’t preach to me, child! If you could give me a sleeping-draught that would blot out memory for ever—make me forget my childhood in the Marais—my youth at St. Germain—the dances at the Louvre—all the days when I was happiest: why, then, perhaps, you might make me in love with Lord Fareham.” “You will begin a new life, sister, now De Malfort is gone.” “I will never forgive him for going!” cried Hyacinth, passionately. “Never—never! To give me no note of warning! To sneak away like a thief who had stolen my diamonds! To fly for debt, too, and not come to me for money! Why have I a fortune, if not to help those I love? But—if he was that woman’s lover—I will never see his face again—never speak his name—never—from the moment I am convinced of that hellish treason—never! Her lover! Lady Castlemaine’s! We have laughed at her, together! Her lover! And there were other women those spiteful wretches talked about just now—a tradesman’s wife! Oh, how hateful, how hateful it all is! Angela, if it is true, I shall go mad!” “Dearest, to you he was but a friend—and though you may be sorry he was so great a sinner, his sins cannot concern your happiness——”