"And pray, my dear Lady Dora, what _has_ character to do with a schottische or a polka? Even if a man be a slanderer, a liar, (pardon me the harsh, but truthful word,) and coward, the two first will not prevent his paying just compliments to your beauty, nor the last make him fail in keeping the time of a _deux temps_, though it _might_ that of a hostile meeting, to answer for the two first." "You are bitter, Mr. Tremenhere." "Bitter! and towards him?" and he laughed. "No; pardon me, I feel too thorough a contempt for the man to waste bitterness upon him; I reserve that for those who may yet be saved by a little wholesome bark, or quinine, medicinally speaking." "Expend it then on me. You _must_ despise, or condemn me; you cannot approve." "I do not judge you, Lady Dora; I do but try to hand down to posterity those perfect features of yours, and you sadly distort them," and he laid down his palette. "You are grieved, vexed; has any thing annoyed you? Can I serve you? Pray, command me!" Minnie had crept from behind the bed. An irresistible impulse impelled her to do so when she found herself alone, and knew Lady Dora to be unaccompanied by any one, with Tremenhere. And pale, almost lifeless, she leaned against the door, and--oh! most scrupulous reader, forgive the fault!--listened. "Mr. Tremenhere!" Lady Dora cried, rising hastily in reply to his question, and standing pale, erect, but trembling; "I would ask you,--I--I am in a position of much suffering." She clasped her hands together as if to still her nervous pain. "I would ask you," she uttered, "whether your memory is perfect?" "In all things, Lady Dora," was the calm reply. "Do you remember when first we met in Florence?" "Well--well. I was then a man, comparatively speaking, full of hope; now----" "And you loved _then_. You (better said) loved me, and I treated your half-avowed affection with scorn; that was pride!" She spoke in hurried confusion. "True--most true!" he uttered. "You quitted, believing me a cold, heartless flirt. You met, and married my cousin; was this love, or--pique?" "I cannot answer, lady, till I know why you ask." "Since her death" (the words fell in cold awe from her lips) "we have met often, and on each occasion words of implied tenderness fell from your tongue." Neither heard the almost groan from the sinking woman, leaning against the half-closed door to the bedroom. "All these I was deaf to, and I accepted Lord Randolph as my future husband. This, too, was pride." Tremenhere stood looking earnestly at her, as one of her hands nervously played on the back of a chair; but he did not utter a word, though the deep, speaking eye was fixed upon her.