"Of yourself?" he asked, surprised, seating himself where she pointed. "No," she replied, drawing herself up in offended pride; "I should not presume to trouble you with my personal affairs, Mr. Tremenhere." "You cannot wonder," he rejoined, "at my feeling the utmost surprise how _mine_ can in any way interest your ladyship." "I would speak of my cousin," she faltered. "Oh!" and he smiled; "true--of _my wife_; it will scarcely astonish you if I say, I had totally forgotten the relationship for the moment." "Let there be a truce of sarcasms," she said, hurriedly. "You judge me harshly, I make no doubt; but there are many things which make this union a most unfortunate, much to be regretted one." "Pardon me, Lady Dora Vaughan, not to those most interested. I can boldly assert _my_ happiness is a realized dream of paradise: my only sorrow, is in absence from the home Minnie makes such to me; and I think I may venture to declare, that no sigh of regret ever quivers on her lip. Those she justly prized have not forgotten her--Aunt Dorcas, for one." "Yes, I am aware," she interrupted, with some confusion, "she has visited you. Come Mr. Tremenhere," and she looked up less coldly in his face, "make some allowances for my position; I am not quite my own mistress. I----" "Lady Dora, my father was an old-fashioned man, and he had quaint notions, you will say; he taught me that it was ungentlemanly not to reply to a polite letter in all cases, and ungenerous in many." "I see," she said, haughtily, "I have a prejudiced judge. I will only pursue this conversation sufficiently to ask a personal favour." "Name it. You shall, if possible, be obeyed." "'Tis--'tis;--in fact, no one here, except my mother, is aware of your marriage. May I ask you to preserve it a secret?" He read her thought, and was resolved to bend her false pride to bare itself before him. "I cannot see," he said, "in what my celibacy interests any one here. There is no lady in love with me, or sighing for leap-year to declare herself!" he laughed carelessly. "Mr. Tremenhere," she cried, "my meaning is this: I--my mother, too, is most anxious that your union with Miss Dalzell should not be published. These painful family _secrets_ are best preserved ever thus." The blood-red spot of pride mantled on her cheek, and flashed from her eye. He was speechless a moment; but what various passions passed over that face then, all settled in one--utter contempt. These two persons were the offspring of pride; but his proud spirit was the legitimate creation of a noble mind, unjustly spurned and contemned; hers, that foul-named thing whose father disowns it, whose mother blushes in shame as she looks upon it. Tremenhere rose in all his soul's dignity, and stood before her; her glance could not cross his--it shrunk, the unreal before the real.