"I know more of your wife than you think," she answered. "I know the circumstances of your marriage, and something of her life since. My condition must stand." "Do you know," he said, "that it would mean ruin to her--body and soul?" "She is not fit to be your wife," Lady Malingcourt said coldly. "You can never make her fit. I think that you would be justified in ignoring her claim upon you. There are limits to one's responsibility." "These," he said, "are your conditions?" "Yes." He drew near to her. The struggle of the last few months seemed lined into his face. "Listen," he said. "I want to be honest--to you. I can't see it any way but this. There's the woman and all the great underneath millions I wanted to help on one side--and on the other--you." "No," she interrupted. "Your life's work was never meant to be in Gascester. It is your domestic duty, or what you imagine to be your domestic duty, against your duty to your fellow-creatures. You can leave me out. Be a man. Free yourself--make use of your powers. The world is a great place for such as you. Strike off your shackles." "There will be no more--Lord Sydenhams?" he asked breathlessly. She smiled upon him--a transforming, transfiguring smile. It was the woman who looked out upon him from those soft, clear eyes. "I am not anxious," she said, "to be married at all. Only, one must do something. And lately London has been very dull. Is that you, Sydenham? I am quite ready. I am afraid that you must be tired of waiting." Lord Sydenham had entered almost noiselessly. He looked from one to the other doubtfully. "I am not interrupting anything in the nature of a conspiracy, I trust?" he inquired, with a faint note of sarcasm. Lady Malingcourt smiled. "I am endeavoring to make Mr. Strone repent of his hasty decision," she said. "I believe that I have succeeded." The next morning Strone walked in his grounds before breakfast, his hands behind his back, his face anxious with thought. He had all the sensations of an executioner. Milly had to be faced--his decision made known to her. All through the night this thing had been before him, had hung around his pillow like an ugly nightmare. Now, in the clear morning sunlight, the brutality of it seemed to be staring him in the face. She was settling down so eagerly into this new life, so proud of her home and belongings, so timidly anxious to avoid any of those small lapses which kindled Strone's irritability.