“Well,” she said again--she took some time to master herself before she was able to speak--“if I did feel it very much, that was not wonderful. I was taken by surprise. For the first moment, just in the confusion, knowing what wickedness people think, I--I--lost heart altogether. It was too dreadful and miserable, but I was not very well, I suppose. I am not going to shirk it at all, Roland. She was travelling with a gentleman--well! and what then?” “Oh, Rosalind!” he cried, with a sort of horror, “after that, can you stand up for her still?” “I don’t know what there is to stand up for. My mother is not a girl like me. She is the best judge of what is right. When I had time to think, that became a matter of course, as plain as daylight.” “And you don’t mind?” he said. She turned upon him something of the same look which she had cast on Rivers, a look of anguish and pathos, reproachful, yet with a sort of tremulous smile. “Oh, Rosalind,” he cried, “I can’t bear to look at you like that. I can’t bear to see you so deceived. I’ll tell you what I saw myself. Nobody was more fond of Madam than I. I’d have gone to the stake for her. But that night--that night, if you remember, when the thorn was hanging to her dress, I had gone away into the conservatory because I couldn’t bear to hear your father going on. Rosalind, just hear out what I have got to say. And there I saw--oh, saw! with my own eyes-- I saw her standing--with a man-- I saw them part, he going away into the shadow of the shrubbery, she--Rosalind!” She had risen up, and stood towering (as he felt) over him, as if she had grown to double her height in a moment. “Do you tell me this,” she said, steadying herself with an effort, moistening her lips between her words to be able to speak--“do you tell me this to make me love you, or hate you?” “Rosalind, to undeceive you, that you may know the truth.” “Go away!” she said. She pointed with her arm to the door. “Go away! It is not the truth. If it were the truth, I should never forgive you, I should never speak to you again. But it is not the truth. Go away!” “Rosalind!” “Must I put you out,” she cried, in the passion which now and then overcame her, stamping her foot upon the floor, “with my own hands?” Alas! he carried the faithful bosom which was of no use to her to cry upon, but which throbbed with pain and trouble all the same, out of doors. He was utterly cowed and subdued, not understanding her, nor himself, nor what had happened. It was the truth, she might deny it as she pleased; he had meant it for the best. But now he had done for himself, that was evident. And perhaps, after all, he was a cad to tell. CHAPTER XXXI.