Conrad’s exit was effected with more despatch than dignity, yet he contrived in his farewell words to insinuate that he had passed a very happy morning with his hostess, instead of a brief ten minutes. Randolph did not speak a word, but stood leaning against the chimney-piece with a stern look on his handsome face. Monica was angry with herself and with Conrad, yet she felt half indignant at the way her husband ignored her guest. “Monica,” said Randolph, speaking first, “I am sorry to have to say it; but I cannot receive Sir Conrad Fitzgerald as a guest beneath my roof.” “You had better give your orders, then, accordingly.” He stepped forward and took her hand. “Surely, Monica, you cannot have any real liking for this man?” “I do not know what you call real liking. We have been friends from childhood; and I do not easily change. He was always welcomed to my father’s house.” “Your father did not know his history.” “Perhaps not; but I do. At least I know this much: that he has sinned and has repented. Is not repentance enough?” “_Has_ he repented?” “Yes, indeed he has.” Randolph’s face expressed a fine incredulity and scorn. There was no relenting in its lines. Monica was not going to sue longer. “Am I also to be debarred from seeing Cecilia, his sister, who is married, and not living so very far away? Am I to give her up, too—my old playmate?” “I have nothing against Mrs. Bellamy, except that she is his sister. I suppose you need not be very intimate?” Monica’s overwrought feelings vented themselves in a burst of indignation. “I see what you want to do—to separate me from all my friends—to break all old ties—to make me forget all but your world, your life. I am to like your friends, to receive them, and be intimate with them; but I am to turn my back with scorn on all whom I have known and loved. You are very hard, Randolph, very hard. It is not that I care for Conrad—I know he has done wrong, though I do believe in his repentance. I liked him once, and Cecilia too; I should like to know them still. They are not much to me, but they belong to the old life—which you do not—which nothing does here. Can you not see how hard it is, and how unjust, to try and cut me off from everything?” He looked at her with a great pity in his eyes, and then gently put the flowers into her hand. “I brought them for you to wear to-night, Monica. Will you have them? Believe me, my child, I would do much to spare you pain, yet in some things I must be the judge. Some day, perhaps, I shall be able to make my meaning plain; meantime I must ask my wife to trust me.” He stooped and kissed her pale brow, and went away without another word. Monica stood still and silent, the fragrant, spotless blossoms, his gift, clasped close in her hands.