"Is letter-writing advisable for a headache?" he asked, after the first salutations were over. "Possibly not," was the cold reply; "but it is one of neglected duty, and I was resolved to finish it to-day." "Then I will take my leave; a visiter is never more unfortunate than when he cuts the thread of some pleasant narrative by pen or lip," and he was going towards the door. "I have forgotten half my message!" he cried, returning. "Lord Randolph desired me to say, that he had taken upon himself the pleasant task of choosing your ladyship's bouquet for this evening, which will arrive in due season," and he moved towards the door. "If you see him, Mr. Tremenhere," she said hastily, at the same time throwing down her pen and closing her letter-book, "pray prevent his lordship from giving himself so much trouble; I dislike bouquets in the hand." "Indeed! permit me to wonder, flowers are kindred to the beautiful--you should not be so unnatural, as to disclaim your own." "I presume I am expected to bow; but I seldom--_never_ do, to compliments; they are so vapid, made up, like these said bouquets, to suit every occasion, every taste, and thus doled out alike to all. Could we listen to half a dozen conversations at once, on the average they would be nearly word for word alike, between an idle man, and a silly woman." "Why silly?" he asked smiling, still standing, hat in hand, near the door. "Because all must be, to listen to them," and she pushed away her chair, and rising, dropped down amid the cushions of the ottomans. Without another word, he crossed the room, laid his hat on the table, and, drawing off the one glove remaining on his hand, flung the two into his hat; and then, quietly seating himself beside her, asked with gentle interest,-- "How is your headache--is it better? You look pale!" and he took her hand. For an instant it struggled, then lay still. This was her first false step of bad generalship. His action was so natural, considering their relationship, though only by marriage, that what else had been freedom passed as a right; her struggle to release it denoted a thought of wrong, and he was not slow to take advantage of it. "Do not deny me even the privilege of a friend--I once possessed that, Lady Dora." She made no reply. "You have not answered my question. Is your headache better, or gone? You would do well to banish that, like all other hurtful things." "_Hurtful_ things?" she uttered in echo. "You are right." "About what? Do we understand one another at last?" "Tell me," she cried hurriedly, looking up, "whilst we are alone and uninterrupted, where have you been, Mr. Tremenhere?" She looked, but could not read the anguish which crossed his brow; he made an effort, and subdued it before her. "Been? shall I tell you truly?" "Do, and quickly. I would know all _now_ at once." "I fled, to prove many things--I fled, to live with a memory--I fled, to come back a slave!"