She looked up at him with an expression in her dark eyes that moved and touched him. Something of the severity passed from his face; he sat down, too, and laid his hand upon hers. “You poor innocent child,” he said quietly, “I do not even believe you know that you have done wrong.” “I do, Randolph,” she answered. “I do know, but not as you think—I could not help that. I hated it—I hate him; but to-night I could not help myself. Where I was wrong was in not doing as you asked—persisting in judging for myself. But how could I know that people could be so cruel, so unworthy, so false? Randolph, I should like to-night to know that I should never see one of them again!” She spoke with a passionate energy that startled him. He had never seen her excited like this before. “What have they been saying to you?” he asked in surprise. “Ah! don’t ask me. It is too hateful! It was Cecilia. She seemed to think it was amusing—a capital joke. Ah! how can people be so unwomanly, so debased!” She put her hands before her eyes, as if to shut out some hideous image. “Yes, I will tell you, Randolph—I will. I owe it to you, because—because—oh, because there is just enough truth to make it so terribly bitter. She said that people knew it was not an ordinary marriage, ours—she called it a _mariage de convenance_. She said everybody knew we had not fallen in love with one another.” Monica’s hand was still pressed over her eyes; she could not look at her husband. “She said I showed it plainly, that I let every one see. I never meant to, Randolph, but perhaps I did. I don’t know how to pretend. But oh, she said people thought it was because I cared—for some one else—that I had married you whilst I loved some one else—and that is all a wicked, wicked lie! You believe that, Randolph, do you not?” She rose up suddenly and he rose too, and they stood looking into each other’s eyes. “You believe that at least, Randolph?” she asked, and wondered at the stern sorrow visible in every line of his face. “Yes, Monica, I believe that,” he answered, very quietly; yet, in spite of all his yearning tenderness there was still some sternness in his manner, for he was deeply moved, and knew that the time had come when at all costs he must speak out. “I, too, have heard that false rumour, and have heard—which I hope you have not—the name of the man to whom your heart is supposed to be given. Shall I tell it you? His name is Conrad Fitzgerald.” Monica recoiled as if he had struck her, and put both her hands before her face. Randolph continued speaking in the same concise way.