"Tremenhere," cried Lord Randolph, coming forward with a hand out, and candour unmistakable on his brow, "I see my aunt is urging you; come, give me your hand, and a grasp in friendship. On my soul you wronged me, and from my soul I pity you!" He glanced upwards at the black band on Miles's hat. This latter fixed his deep eyes on him, and in that glance he read the other's inmost soul; no, guilt could never wear that look! Lord Randolph he had thought led away by passion to commit an unworthy act, for he knew he was no cold-blooded villain. A still, small voice had been some time whispering to him, that look--the calm, unblenching, feeling expression on the other's face brought a cold, grey light of despair to his heart, like that of early winter's dawn, when, for the first time by day, we look upon a loved face, whose spirit had fled by torch-light. "I believe you!" he uttered, in a husky voice, grasping his hand. "_Let us forget it._" There was something so broken-hearted in the tone, that Lord Randolph felt his bosom swell--something choked him; for he was a man, as we have seen, of feeling. "Better so," he said, in a low tone. "Forget it, Tremenhere--'twas destiny!" Miles did not reply, but burst into a discordant laugh. "I have done so," he said; "you see I have! _This_," and he pointed towards his hat, "is only the usage of society. Obligation! form! let us _never_ speak of it!" And, wringing his hand, he turned to the ladies, who had discreetly conversed apart; but Lady Dora's eyes never quitted Tremenhere's face. But she did not read him as Lord Randolph did: as their hands parted, this latter mentally said-- "Poor fellow! _There_ is a man who _never_ will know peace, whatever he may seem to the world. From my soul I pity him!" Nothing was perceptible in Miles's manner. From that night he grew paler perhaps, but the canker was unseen. He was gayer, wittier, more amusing than ever; but as the door of his studio closed on the world, the man sat down with his conviction and undying remorse. One glance at Lord Randolph had enlightened his darkened mind. There were two feelings which grew apace in his heart from that moment--one was, a restless desire to be ever in the other's presence; he never gave utterance to a word of friendship, never spoke or alluded to Minnie; but, as if it could restore fame to her memory, his every earthly tie was Lord Randolph; and, to the utter amazement of all, an intimacy the most complete sprung up between them--both knew why, but neither ever noticed it. This horror of naming his wife prevented Miles seeking Mary Burns; he felt it would kill or madden him, to speak of her. He would crush her memory before all eyes, by a mask the most complete; only one eye should read his soul--Heaven's!