“I wish I could believe you,” she said, almost convinced in spite of herself, there was something so trustworthy about him. “I want a friend and protector badly enough, for my brother has deserted me.” “What, Teignmouth!” exclaimed her companion incredulously. “Yes; he thinks I have disgraced him, and the name I bear, and does not care for me to be associated any longer with his innocent, pure-minded wife, lest I should contaminate her.” Lady Gwendolyn would have been less than a woman if she had not allowed her sneer to be perceptible--for she owed all her misery and humiliation to Pauline; and to know that she had managed to exalt herself in Lord Teignmouth’s eyes at the expense of his sister, did not give her a very Christianlike feeling toward the clever countess, assuredly. But, having relieved herself by this little piece of spite, Gwendolyn melted into tears again, and was so agitated she did not notice the arm that was stealing round her waist so gently. Nor did she resist when presently, grown bold by impunity, Colonel Dacre drew her head down on to his breast and murmured: “If you must weep, darling, you shall weep here. I hold you fast now, and will not be denied. Cannot you trust me a little?” She shook her head drearily. “I am afraid I could not. I should always feel as if there were some mystery between us--and that would spoil all my happiness. Besides, you do not respect me, Lawrence; you told me so frankly two years ago. What kind of marriage could ours be, distrusting each other mutually, as we should do?” “I should never mistrust my wife.” “Not during the honeymoon, perhaps; but afterward, when you could reason coolly again, would you not remember the past, and be inclined to throw it in my teeth?” “You do not give me credit for much generosity, Gwendolyn.” “I think you are a man,” she said. “And all men are scoundrels, I suppose?” “No; but they are sensitive on certain points. You may not be a Cæsar, but I fancy you would not care to have your wife suspected, for all that?” “I do not see why you should be suspected.” “It is a cruel world, remember. When people saw me pass on your arm, the women would say: ‘Poor fellow! he married Lady Gwendolyn St. Maur out of pity, because nobody would have anything to say to her after that wretched affair at Turoy. I wonder if she really did poison Mr. Belmont? She looks like that sort of person, does she not?’ A few men would make excuses for me, perhaps--men do judge more mercifully than my sex; but their voices would soon be drowned by their wives’ shrill chorus of dispraise. You see, Colonel Dacre, it is better I should live and die alone.” “On the contrary, it is better you should belong to me, as you need a defender.” “Who excuses himself accuses himself,” she answered sadly. “And that was why you were silent yesterday?” “No; I had a far different reason.” “Will you not confide in me a little?” he pleaded.