“You know best,” she said. “I have no doubt you are right. Remember one thing, however, that though I have no heart, I have never encouraged you, Mr. Moody. I have declared over and over again that I could only be your friend. Understand that for the future, if you please. There are plenty of nice women who will be glad to marry you, I have no doubt. You will always have my best wishes for your welfare. Good-morning. Her Ladyship will wonder what has become of me. Be so kind as to let me pass.” Tortured by the passion that consumed him, Moody obstinately kept his place between Isabel and the door. The unworthy suspicion of her, which had been in his mind all through the interview, now forced its way outwards to expression at last. “No woman ever used a man as you use me without some reason for it,” he said. “You have kept your secret wonderfully well--but sooner or later all secrets get found out. I know what is in your mind as well as you know it yourself. You are in love with some other man.” Isabel’s face flushed deeply; the defensive pride of her sex was up in arms in an instant. She cast one disdainful look at Moody, without troubling herself to express her contempt in words. “Stand out of my way, sir!”--that was all she said to him. “You are in love with some other man,” he reiterated passionately. “Deny it if you can!” “Deny it?” she repeated, with flashing eyes. “What right have you to ask the question? Am I not free to do as I please?” He stood looking at her, meditating his next words with a sudden and sinister change to self-restraint. Suppressed rage was in his rigidly set eyes, suppressed rage was in his trembling hand as he raised it emphatically while he spoke his next words. “I have one thing more to say,” he answered, “and then I have done. If I am not your husband, no other man shall be. Look well to it, Isabel Miller. If there _is_ another man between us, I can tell him this--he shall find it no easy matter to rob me of you!” She started, and turned pale--but it was only for a moment. The high spirit that was in her rose brightly in her eyes, and faced him without shrinking. “Threats?” she said, with quiet contempt. “When you make love, Mr. Moody, you take strange ways of doing it. My conscience is easy. You may try to frighten me, but you will not succeed. When you have recovered your temper I will accept your excuses.” She paused, and pointed to the table. “There is the letter that you told me to leave for you when I had sealed it,” she went on. “I suppose you have her Ladyship’s orders. Isn’t it time you began to think of obeying them?” The contemptuous composure of her tone and manner seemed to act on Moody with crushing effect. Without a word of answer, the unfortunate steward took up the letter from the table. Without a word of answer, he walked mechanically to the great door which opened on the staircase--turned on the threshold to look at Isabel--waited a moment, pale and still--and suddenly left the room.