"Something about the boys, of course!"--(half fretfully)--"it is always the boys." "It is nothing about the boys--quite wrong. That is _one_." "The fair Zéphine is no more!--by-the-by, I suppose I should have heard of that." "It is nothing about the fair Zéphine--wrong again! That is _two_!" "Barbara has got leave to stay till Easter!" "Nothing about Barbara!"--(with a slight momentary pang at the ease and unconcern with which he mentions her name).--"By-the-by, I wish you would give up calling her 'Barbara;' she never calls you 'Frank!' There, you have had your three guesses, and you have never come within a mile of it--I shall have to tell you--_Roger is coming back!_" opening my eyes and beginning to laugh joyously. "_Soon?_" with a quick and breathless change of tone, that I cannot help perceiving, turning sharply upon me. "_At once!_" reply I, triumphantly; "we may expect him _any day_!" He receives this information in total silence. He does not attempt the faintest or slightest congratulation. "I wish I had not told you!" cry I, indignantly; "what a fool I was to imagine that you would feel the slightest interest in any thing that did not concern yourself personally! Of course" (turning a scarlet face and blazing eyes full upon him), "I did not expect you to _feel_ glad--I have known you too long for that--but you might have had the common civility to _say_ you were!" We have stopped. We stand facing each other in the narrow wood-path, while the beck noisily babbles past, and the thrushes answer each other in lovely dialogue. He is deadly pale; his lips are trembling, and his eyes--involuntarily I look away from them! "I am _not_ glad!" he says, with slow distinctness; "often--often you have blamed me for _hinting_ and _implying_ for using innuendoes and half-words, and once--_once_, do you recollect?--you told me to my face that I _lied_! Well, I will not _lie_ now; you shall have no cause to blame me to-day. I will tell you the truth, the truth that you know as well as I do--I am _not_ glad!" Absolute silence. I could no more answer or interrupt him than I could soar up between the dry tree-boughs to heaven. I stand before him with parted lips, and staring eyes fixed in a stony, horrid astonishment on his face. "Nancy," he says, coming a step nearer, and speaking in almost a whisper, "_you_ are not glad either! For once speak the truth! Hypocrisy is always difficult to you. You are the worst actress I ever saw--speak the truth for once! Who is there to hear you but me? I, who know it already--who have known it ever since that first evening in Dresden! Do you recollect?--but of course you do--why do I ask you? Why should you have forgotten any more than I?"