"But I don't know what you mean, Ogilvie!" he cried, quite bewildered. "Is it a thing for all the world to know? What story is it--when I knew nothing till yesterday?" "Well, you know now: I saw by your face a minute ago that she had told you the truth at last," Ogilvie said. "Macleod, don't blame me. When I heard of her being about to be married, I did not believe the story--" Macleod sprang at him like a tiger, and caught his arm with the grip of a vise. "Her getting married?--to whom?" "Why, don't you know?" Ogilvie said, with his eyes staring. "Oh yes, you must know. I see you know! Why, the look in your face when you came into this room--" "Who is the man, Ogilvie?"--and there was the sudden hate of ten thousand devils in his eyes. "Why, it is that artist fellow--Lemuel. You don't mean to say she hasn't told you? It is the common story! And Mrs. Ross thought it was only a piece of nonsense--she said they were always making out those stories about actresses--but she went to Miss White. And when Miss White could not deny it, Mrs. Ross said there and then they had better let their friendship drop. Macleod, I would have written to you--upon my soul, I would have written to you--but how could I imagine you did not know? And do you really mean to say she has not told you anything of what has been going on recently--what was well known to everybody?" And this young man spoke in a passion, too; Keith Macleod was his friend. But Macleod himself seemed, with some powerful effort of will, to have got the better of his sudden and fierce hate; he sat down again; he spoke in a low voice, but there was a dark look in his eyes. "No," said he, slowly, "she has not told me all about it. Well, she did tell me about a poor creature--a woman-man--a thing of affectation, with his paint-box and his velvet coat, and his furniture. Ogilvie, have you got any brandy?" Ogilvie rang, and got some brandy, some water, a tumbler, and a wineglass placed on the table. Macleod, with a hand that trembled violently, filled the tumbler half full of brandy. "And she could not deny the story to Mrs. Ross?" said he, with a strange and hard smile on his face. "It was her modesty. Ah, you don't know, Ogilvie, what an exalted soul she has. She is full of idealisms. She could not explain all that to Mrs. Ross. _I_ know. And when she found herself too weak to carry out her aspirations, she sought help. Is that it? She would gain assurance and courage from the woman-man?" He pushed the tumbler away; his hand was still trembling violently.