And now let us follow the footsteps of that other green-bowed lady, the seeming double or replica of this, whom we can leave for the time being. She was Kate herself, in fact, the little outraged wife, intent on her design to personate the object of her faithless spouse’s pursuit, and, by figuring to him under false colours, to draw him into an unconscious confession of his guilt. She had driven over in her coach, and--though some accident had delayed her by the way--in time, she still hoped, to enable her to forestall the other. Alighting, she had hurriedly traversed the distance between the gates and the open sward beyond, where the company were most wont to congregate; but, though she used her eyes for all the inquisition they were worth, without result. Eager and flurried, then, she was turning to retrace her steps, when she saw _him_ making towards her from the shadow of a clump of trees, whence, obviously, he had been watching. She stopped instantly, and let out a shaking breath to ease the turmoil of her heart. It was he, her husband; it never occurred to her to doubt it; the height, the figure, were sufficient, not to speak of the damning token in his hat. And, once assured, she hardly looked his way, I think. And yet, so susceptible is jealousy to false witness, it was not my lord at all, but the Duke of York. He came up to her where she stood, and, gazing intently through his mask, waited silently a while. And then he sighed, with extreme audibility. Still, she vouchsafed him no recognition or encouragement, but stood as cold and motionless as one of the white lilies in the bed beyond. He was forced at last into taking the initiative. “Not one word, madam,” said he, “to him that wears your favour? Will you not reassure my anxiety?” He was aware of the faintest odd response to this appeal; it might have been a whispered note of exultation. “For whom, sir,” she said, still white, still inflexible, “do you take me?” “Ah!” he said, “is not that bow in your bosom sufficient answer?” With a quick, fierce action, she pulled the vizard from her face, looked him in the eyes one moment, and, replacing it, half turned her back on him. “Now,” she said, “are you satisfied of your error?” “Satisfied,” said he, “but not of my error, for indeed there is none.” And, indeed, there _was_ none, from his point of view. She turned on him irresistibly, unable to control her indignation-- “You can dare to say it, trapped and detected in the very act? There is no error--none?--and I am she, I suppose, whom you expected to find revealed under this token? O! shameless! But your dissembling does not deceive me--instant and ready as it proves itself. Go seek her, sir, the vile party to your iniquity--she is doubtless somewhere in the garden; and bear with you the scorn and detestation of the insulted wife you thought vainly to overreach, and who now denounces and repudiates you for evermore.”