“She has only had the letter in her possession for a month, she told me, and did not know of its existence before. She said she meant to send it to Borton Hall directly she heard of our return there; but our chance meeting yesterday has saved her the trouble.” “And where is she going now?” “Well, she is going to be married--if that is an answer to your question.” “To whom?” inquired Lady Gwendolyn, her eyes sparkling. “Any one I know?” “That I can’t tell you; but it is a Russian prince.” “Nonsense, Lawrence!” exclaimed his wife, melting altogether now, although the news seemed too good to be true. “It isn’t, really, the least probable.” “It is the improbable things that always come to pass, I find.” “I suppose she will live abroad?” said Lady Gwendolyn, with a great affectation of carelessness. “I dare say.” “Don’t you mind?” she asked, drawing quite close to him and speaking coaxingly. “Why should I mind?” “You are such old friends.” “Exactly. But, you see, I shall have to cut all my old friends now, since my wife takes it into her head to be jealous of them.” “Oh, Lawrence!” “It is true, Gwen!” “Not quite,” she answered, with sudden candor. “I have never been jealous of any one but Mrs. O’Hara.” “And why of her, Gwen? We were both free eight months back, and if we had cared for each other, what need have hindered our marriage?” Lady Gwendolyn hung her head. “I never thought about that.” “No; my wife took a foolish fancy into her head, and, instead of doing her best to banish it, allowed it to take quiet possession of all her thoughts. The consequence was that I could not shake hands civilly with an old friend without being supposed to care more for her than the woman I had sworn to love and cherish before Heaven! Confess that you have been very absurd, Gwen.” “I am afraid I have, Lawrence,” she answered penitently, as she nestled close to him and laid her head on his shoulder. “But you may be sure I shall trust you for the future, for my own sake. I have suffered dreadfully since yesterday afternoon.” “I know that, and you deserve a severe snubbing; only I am so weak where you are concerned, that, if I began to scold, I should end ignominiously by caressing you, I fancy.” “And what a nice ending, dear.” Lawrence was only a man, and his wife was very fair; so that we may be sure he readily responded to this naive invitation. But he had a mind to improve the occasion before he let the subject drop; so he gave her a little lecture on the terrible result of any want of confidence between husband and wife; and she was so glad to be forgiven, that she not only promised all he required, but even forgot to remind him that he did not always practise what he preached. But the Borton mystery had almost faded from her mind by this time, and, moreover, she thought it better to “let sleeping dogs lie.”