“Well, they are property,” said her ladyship, with a provoking laugh. “I get tired of an ornament so soon; it is nice to know I can dispose of it to advantage, and buy something that pleases me better with the money.” “Lady Gwendolyn, I give you notice that I don’t believe a word you are saying.” “No?” “No, I do not believe you to be so bad as you make yourself out,” he pursued, with indignant emphasis, for he was trying to convince himself as well as to shame her. “But I cannot understand the pleasure of shocking people.” “Because you are not sensational.” “Heaven forbid!” he ejaculated fervently. “Why ‘Heaven forbid?’ There is nothing so delightful. I should die of ennui down here, if it weren’t for an occasional tragedy or surprise.” “It is to be hoped you won’t have one too many,” he answered gravely. She lifted her mutinous face from his shoulder to look into his eyes, and then subsided back into her warm shelter, smiling an odd, keen, satisfied little smile, which seemed to say: “You belong to me so thoroughly now that, whatever I may say or do, you cannot break your bonds.” And, alas! it was only too true. He knew this himself by his undiminished longing to crush her into his arms--to carry her away to some quiet corner of the earth, where she might belong to him undisputed, and satisfy his whole being with the sweetness of her presence. For this he would have resigned gladly all the advantages she had just been enumerating; for this he would have sacrificed everything but his honor, and hope of heaven. “Well,” she said, after a long pause, “why don’t you talk?” “I have nothing to say, Lady Gwendolyn, that would be sufficiently tragical, or surprising, either, to amuse you,” he answered, with indulgent irony. “I am not so sure of that. Do you know what somebody told me once?” “Somebody must have told you so many things at different times.” “But I mean about you?” “I am no Œdipus, Lady Gwendolyn,” he answered; and, though he constrained himself to speak coolly, his lips went white. “That you have a secret in your life--a skeleton in your cupboard,” she said, in a quick breath, that showed that she was speaking with a purpose, and not out of mere audacity and carelessness. “Is it true?” He seemed to swallow down a great lump in his throat before he could answer her; and then his voice was strangely hoarse, and unlike his natural tones. “Do you ask this out of curiosity only, Lady Gwendolyn?” It was her turn to steady her voice before she responded: “No--at least, not exactly.” “Then tell me your motive?” And, unconsciously, in his eagerness he stooped over her, until his lips touched her hair. “I--I want to know,” she stammered out. “That is not a reason.” “It is the best I can give you.” “The best you can give me would be the true one.” “A woman does not like to confess that she is curious,” she said evasively. “Then it is curiosity?” “I did not say so.” “You implied it, Lady Gwendolyn.”