“You don’t do justice to their inventive faculties, Lady Gwendolyn.” “I don’t profess to understand them much,” she answered, with the hauteur of a true patrician. “I always hear that they are very unsatisfactory people; but I am sufficiently fortunate, I suppose, for I don’t often change my maids.” “And I never change mine,” he said, laughing. “I always find the same faces here when I return from my travels. But are you quite determined to banish Mrs. Whittaker, Lady Gwendolyn?” “Entirely. I infinitely prefer to be alone; and as I am free from pain, and perfectly composed, I really don’t see what I could do with her if she were here, except listen to your praises.” “And that would be too trying.” “I never said so; but, as you advocate frankness, I will admit that I would rather the pleasure were postponed.” “Sine die, I suppose?” “Colonel Dacre, you are too spiteful! I won’t listen to you any longer.” And she turned her face to the wall, with a resolute air. He went down on one knee, and said in a tragical tone: “I cannot depart without your forgiveness. There is a deep pit on the Teignmouth Road, and, blinded by despair, I should be sure to fall into it! There is also a swift river beyond. You will not, surely, send me forth to certain destruction?” She gave him her hand, and his lips fastened on it eagerly, passionately. She kept her face averted still, but she did not chide him, and a faint tremor went through her whole frame. Then slowly she turned her head, and, looking him straight in the eyes, said softly: “You have not told me your secret yet.” He sprang to his feet abruptly, as if he had been stung. “Who told you I had a secret?” he asked, in a stifled voice. “Some one.” “Is it impossible that ‘some one’ should lie?” “Tell me it is so, and I will believe you.” Dead silence. “Do you hear me, Colonel Dacre?” “Yes, I hear you, Lady Gwendolyn.” “Then answer something,” she added, in an impatient tone. Again he was mute. She snatched her hand away from him, and turned her face to the wall once more. “I understand you, Colonel Dacre. You have a secret, and one you would be ashamed to tell me.” “Is that a necessary inference?” he inquired, in a low, constrained voice. “I think so.” “Perhaps you are too prejudiced to be just.” “I don’t know why I should be. You and I were always good friends, in the social sense of the term. For instance, you always asked me for two or three dances when we met at a ball, and sometimes you even took me down to supper. I have even known you to shelter me from the sun by holding my parasol at a garden-party; and once you so far sacrificed yourself as to play croquet at my desire. After that I never allowed myself to doubt your devotion, I assure you; and I am surprised you should think I could be prejudiced against you.” “Can you never be serious?” he said painfully. “I am serious now.” “I should be sorry to think so.” “Why? I have not said anything bad, have I?”