"I hate the subject also," said Paul angrily; and poor Lady Lyons, utterly unconscious of how she had managed to make things unpleasant, saw she had done so and began to apologise. But Paul's expression, the disgust she saw written in his face, was too much for Grace, worn out as she was with the anxiety this very subject had given her, and she rose, tried to move to the door, and fell into her husband's arms in a faint--out of which they found it difficult to rouse her. Paul was sorry for her and very anxious. He had seen her suffer, but he had never known her faint like this before. For the moment, and till she recovered, everything was forgotten; but when she came round again Grace saw that she had fallen in her husband's eyes, and cried bitter tears when he turned away. Yes, she had fallen. How often occasions had arisen when he might have been told the truth! How utterly she had kept him in the dark! He was resentful, and it was not in him to see any circumstances in extenuation. If she thought it right to benefit by this man's money, why not have said so frankly? In any conversation about Margaret, when he had spoken his mind, what was there to prevent her saying what the case was? Mingled with indignation at the way he had been treated was also the bitter fact that they would be so much poorer than he had imagined, because, of course, the money should go back. It was the price of Margaret's happiness, and he would have none of it. Lady Lyons, with the best intentions, drove him nearly wild that evening. It is wonderful what powers of irritation very well-meaning people possess when they are endowed with blunt perceptions and limited intelligence. Some days passed on. There was constant constraint between the two who, up till now, had been so happy. Then there came the day before they sailed. Grace was lying back in a chair, looking pale and weary, and her husband was writing. All at once he looked up and said briefly-- "Grace, that money must be given up." "Yes," she said, and he thought he heard a little sob. "How you can care to keep it!" he said, trying to subdue his feelings because she was evidently so unwell. "I care to keep it! If you only knew how I hate myself for ever having cared! Paul, do you remember your being so violent--speaking so strongly about it. It took away my courage. I could not tell you, and it has been making me so wretched!" "But why was I kept in the dark about it from the first?" he asked, always trying to control himself. "Why was it talked of as a legacy?" "There was no reason you should not have known at first. I described it to your mother as a legacy (it was, in the first instance, left to Margaret); it saved explanations, and I did not care for her to know. You never inquired how the money had come to me. If you had asked one direct question, I should have been forced to speak the truth to you." "I see no difference," he said again.