But then came a revulsion of feeling. Was he not her childhood’s friend? Had she not promised not to turn her back upon him, and help to drive him to despair by her coldness? Had he not come with news of Trevlyn and of home? And in that last eager thought all else was lost, and she met him gladly, almost eagerly. He told her all she longed to know. He came primed with the latest news from Trevlyn. His manner was quiet and gentle. He was very cautious not to alarm or disturb her. “I shall not be able to see much of you in the future, Monica,” he said, “but you will let me call myself still your friend?” She bent her head in a sort of assent. “And will you let me take a friend’s privilege, and ask one question. Are you happy in your new life?” Monica’s face took a strange expression. “It is very gay, very lively. I shall like it better as I get more used to it.” “I see,” he answered, very gently, “I understand. And when are you going home again?” “I am at home now,” she answered, steadily. He looked searchingly at her. “I thought Trevlyn was to be always home. Has he thrown off the mask so soon?” “I think,” said Monica, with a little gleam in her eye, “that you forget you are speaking of my husband.” Conrad’s eyes gleamed too; but she did not see it. “Forgive me, Monica; I did forget. It is all so strange and sudden. Then he makes you happy? Tell me that! Let me have the assurance that at least he makes his captive happy.” She started a little; but Conrad’s face expressed nothing but the quietest, sincerest good-will and sympathy. “He is very, very good to me,” she said, quietly. “He studies me as I have never been studied before. All my wishes are forestalled: he thinks of everything, he does everything. I cannot tell you how good he is. I have never known anything like it before. Did you ever see anyone more surrounded by beauty and luxury than I am?” He looked at her steadily. She knew that she had evaded his question—a question he had no right to put, as she could not but feel—and that he knew she had done so. “Ah!” he murmured, “the gilded cage, the gilded cage; but only a cage, after all. Monica, forgive me for expressing a doubt; but I know the man so well, and my whole soul revolts at seeing you dragged as it were at his chariot wheels for all the world to look at and admire. To take you from your wild free home, and bribe you into submission—I hate to think of it!” Monica’s cheek had flushed suddenly; but before she could frame a rejoinder the door opened to admit Randolph. He carried in his hand some hot-house flowers, which he had brought for his wife. He stopped short when he saw who was Monica’s guest, and her cheek flamed anew, for she knew he would not understand how she came to receive him in her private room, and she felt that by a want of firmness and _savoir faire_ she had allowed herself to be placed in a false position.