“When?” she asked. For sole answer he took from his pocketbook the little note she had left on the table of his mother’s room the day of her pretended accident, and held it up before her eyes. “Well?” she said half defiantly. “Was that either just or true?” “It was true, anyhow.” “You cannot prove it, Lady Gwendolyn. I should be an idiot, indeed, if, having a secret to guard----” “Which you admitted,” put in Lady Gwendolyn. “Or, rather say, which I did not deny. But I repeat that I should have been an idiot indeed if, under these circumstances, I had introduced you into the very room where you would find something to betray me.” “There was nothing in that room to betray you.” “Where, then?” “I am not bound to say.” “I think you are, for your own sake. I am sure you would not like me to think that you had taken any mean advantage of the small courtesy it was such a great pleasure to me to show you.” “How can it signify to me what you think?” she flashed round upon him to say. His silence was a rebuke, and shamed her as no words could have done. She colored hotly up to the very roots of her hair. “I mean,” she added, “that you would be sure to misunderstand me.” “On the contrary, Lady Gwendolyn.” “Anyhow, I will tell you nothing. I have a right to my secrets as well as you.” “Just as you like,” he said, bowing coldly. “It is better so, perhaps. But I am keeping you from your walk, Lady Gwendolyn. Let me thank you before I go for the many pleasant hours you have allowed me to pass in your company. The memory of them will always be both a pleasure and a pang.” He could almost have vowed that he saw two large tears in her dark eyes; nevertheless, she said, carelessly enough to outward appearance: “It is not very probable that I shall ever cause you another pang, so that you can afford to pardon me. I have quite made up my mind not to return to Teignmouth.” “I suppose one may expect to hear of your marriage shortly?” he observed, conscious of another pang at this moment--a pang so strong that it whitened his very lips, and made his heart tremble within him. “My marriage? No, thank you. You are much more likely to hear of my taking the veil.” “You are the last person I know to do such a thing as that, Lady Gwendolyn. You are too fond of the world to desert it.” “You think so?” she answered, with a gravity that surprised him. “I suppose the kind of intercourse you and I have had makes it impossible that you should understand me.” “And you think that I was flirting with you, Lady Gwendolyn?” he said, in a stifled voice. “Assuredly; and why not?” “I should not have dreamed of insulting you thus. The whole aim and ambition of my life was to win you for my wife--that I swear.” “And yet you say you would not have dreamed of insulting me.” “By professing what I did not feel, I meant!” “Or promising what you could not perform?” “I never did such a thing in my life, Lady Gwendolyn.”