“You’re not too old for friendship, though. I will speak candidly--you’re looking very ill.” She drew herself up a little stiffly. “It is the climate.” “The climate is delightful. You nursed Timothy Wiggs too untiringly.” “Don’t call him Timothy Wiggs. We never--I never used his last name.” “I think, if you could bring yourself to call him Timothy Wiggs six consecutive times without stopping, you would be quite cured of your infatuation.” “Sir!” said she, rising to her feet. “Saint, you mean. Sit down, Princess. It is only fools and hypocrites who can’t bear plain speaking. Sit down.” He spoke so authoritatively, that somehow she obeyed him. “You imagined a great deal about Timothy Wiggs, you know.” “Oh, please don’t. He was the sweetest little boy I ever met.” “I don’t doubt. They’re all sweet when they’re too ill to make themselves obnoxious in any other department. Shall I tell you why you got to imagining great things of the little Wigg boy?” “No.” “Yes. Barringcourt came along with his good looks and better figure. He talked a lot of nonsense to Timothy, and incidentally to you--he’s good at it. And the nonsense was so sweet, you fell in love with it. Believe me, it’s all nonsense from beginning to end.” “It isn’t,” and unconsciously she put her hand up to her throat. “Oh no. _That_ isn’t. But the rest is. He has a temper that would lock most men up in a lunatic asylum.” No answer. “Not only that, but he is absolutely made without a heart.” The white hands trembled over the embroidery. “Not only that, but he has a habit of despising those who show theirs too freely--as perhaps, being young, you may have done.” The handkerchief had fallen--her hands were clenched. “I never did! I never did! I stifled every feeling, I never showed a thing. And I won all along the way till--till just the end. And then I was weak and ill, and I couldn’t help it--and even then I don’t know what I did.” “No; I expect it’s one of those cases in which men blame women, and women blame men, instead of going equal shares. But is it true you’re going to sit here moping, making him believe that with you it was all a serious affair--whilst with him it was nothing but a passing folly?” Marigold looked up at him. “What do you advise?” “Get back some of your old life. Not all of it. Men are heavy--even the best of them. They don’t understand.” “I will never speak or look at him again.”