"That is so likely," say I, quickly, "so much her way, is not it?" I suppose that something in the exceeding bitterness of my tone strikes him, for his eyes return from Algy to me. "Nancy," he says, speaking with a sort of hesitating impulse, while a dark flush crosses his face, "it has occurred to me once or twice--if the idea had been less unspeakably absurd, it would have occurred to me many times--that you are--are _jealous_ of Zéphine and me!--YOU jealous of ME!!" There is such a depth of emphasis in his last words--such a wealth of reproachful appeal in the eyes that are bent on me--that I can answer nothing. I say neither yea nor nay. He has sat down on the couch beside me. "Tell me," he says, with low, quick excitement--"and for God's sake do not grow scarlet, and turn your head aside as you mostly have done--did you, or did you not know that--that _Musgrave_ was to be here to-day?" "I _did not_--_indeed_ I _did not_!" I cry, with passionate eagerness; thankful for once to be able to tell the truth; "we none of us did--not even Barbara!" He repeats my last words with a slightly sarcastic inflection, "_not even Barbara_!" A moment's pause. "Why did you stop talking so suddenly, the moment that we interrupted you?" he asks, with an abruptness that is almost harsh--"what were you talking about?" Phew! how hot it is! even though one is by the open window!--even despite the cool moistness of the night wind. "I was--I was--I was--congratulating him!" I say, doing the very thing he has forbidden me, reddening and turning half away. He makes no rejoinder; only I hear him sigh, and put his hand with a quick, impatient movement to his head. "You believe me?" I ask, timidly, laying my hand on his arm. "No, _I do not_!" he replies, shaking off my touch, and turning his stern and glittering eyes full upon me. "I should be a _fool_ and an _idiot_ if I did!" Then he rises hastily and leaves me. I watch him as he joins the other men. They are _all_ round her now--all but Musgrave. Algy has left his corner and his reversed picture-book, moved thereto by the unparalleled audacity of young Parker, who has pulled one of the sofa-cushions down on the floor, and is squatting on it, like a great toad at her feet, examining a gnat-bite on her sacred arm. Even the old host is doing the agreeable according to his lights. In a very loud voice he is narrating a long anecdote about a pretty girl that he once saw at a windmill near Seville, during the Peninsular. With a most unholy chuckle he is trying to hint that there was more between him and the young lady than it well beseems him to tell; but fortunately no one, but I, is listening to him. I turn away my head, and look out of the window up at Charles's Wain, and all my other bright old friends. No one is heeding me--no one sees me; so I drop my hot cheek on the sill.