"I told you already," returned Sepia, "that I had no suspicion of him--at least, I desire to have none, but you may be required to prove all you say; and it is as well to let you understand--though there is no reason why _I_ should take the trouble--that your going to those very people at the time, and their proving to be friends of yours, adds to the difficulty." "How?" asked Mary. "I am not on the jury," replied Sepia, with indifference. The scope of her remarks seemed to Mary intended to show that any suspicion of her would only be natural. For the moment the idea amused her. But Sepia's way of talking about Tom, whatever she meant by it, was disgraceful! "I am astonished you should seem so indifferent," she said, "if the character of a gentleman with whom you have been so intimate is so seriously threatened as you would imply. I know he has been to see you more than once while Mr. and Mrs. Redmain were not yet returned." Sepia's countenance changed; an evil fire glowed in her eyes, and she looked at Mary as if she would search her to the bone. The poorer the character, the more precious the repute! "The foolish fellow," she returned, with a smile of contempt, "chose to fall in love with me!--A married man, too!" "If you understood that, how did he come to be here so often?" asked Mary, looking her in the face. But Sepia knew better than declare war a moment before it was unavoidable. "Have I not just told you," she said, in a haughty tone, "that the man was in love with me?" "And have you not just told me he was a married man? Could he have come to the house so often without at least your permission?" Mary was actually taking the upper hand with her! Sepia felt it with scarcely repressive rage. "He deserved the punishment," she replied, with calmness. "You do not seem to have thought of his wife!" "Certainly not. She never gave me offense." "Is offense the only ground for casting a regard on a fellow-creature?" "Why should I think of her?" "Because she was your neighbor, and you were doing her a wrong." "Once for all, Marston," cried Sepia, overcome at last, "this kind of thing will not do with me. I may not be a saint, but I have honesty enough to know the genuine thing from humbug. You have thrown dust in a good many eyes in this house, but _none_ in mine." By this time Mary had got her temper quite in hand, taking a lesson from the serpent, who will often keep his when the dove loses hers. She hardly knew what fear was, for she had in her something a little stronger than what generally goes by the name of faith. She was therefore able to see that she ought, if possible, to learn Sepia's object in talking thus to her. "Why do you say all this to me?" she asked, quietly. "I can not flatter myself it is from friendship."