A glance of jealous anger from the eyes of Lady Wynde greeted Craven Black as he reentered the presence of his betrothed. The baronet’s widow began to entertain a suspicion of the disaffection of her lover. Sir John Freise was the first to propose a departure, and the horses were ordered, and he, with Mr. Atkins and Lord Towyn, took their leave. Craven Black exchanged a few whispered words with Lady Wynde, appointing an interview for the next morning, and then also departed with his son. They were to walk to Wyndham, and not a word was spoken by either as they strode down the wide avenue, and passed out at the lodge gates. Once out upon the highway, Craven Black broke the silence, saying: “Well, Rufus, how do you like Miss Wynde?” “She is beautiful--lovely beyond comparison,” answered Rufus enthusiastically. “I never saw a being so witching, so bright, so sweet!” “You talk like a lover,” sneered Craven Black. “One would not believe that you had been lying drunk all day at a low inn through love for another woman.” “You will drive me mad!” ejaculated Rufus, his voice choking suddenly. “How dare you taunt me with my misery and degradation? I did love Lally--I do love her, God knows. But you have separated us. She despises me, and I am thrown upon myself. Why grudge me the little comfort Miss Wynde’s presence and smiles give me? If I had never met Lally, I should have idolized Miss Wynde. And as Lally can never be mine again--my poor wronged girl--and I shall go to perdition unless some hand pulls me back, I turn to Miss Wynde as a drowning man might turn to any frail support and cling to it. I--I like her. I could almost say I love her.” “Enviable elasticity of youthful affections!” sighed Craven Black, still sneeringly, and speaking in a stilted voice. “You remind me of a child, Rufus, whose doll is smashed to-day, but who is equally content with a new one to-morrow. You remind me also of the old maid’s prayer. She wanted one man and another, but as the years went on and she grew old, she ceased to pray for the affections of any man in particular, but cried out, ‘Any, O Lord, _any_!’ And so, I judge, one woman is to you the same as another. It is ‘Lalla Rookh’ one day, and Miss Wynde the next. ‘Extremes meet.’” Rufus grew terribly angry. “You talk as if you were dissatisfied with me for obeying your own orders to make myself agreeable to Miss Wynde,” he ejaculated. “Do you want her now for yourself?” Mr. Black hastened to disclaim any such desire. “As to me,” said Rufus, with unwonted decision, “I will not be much longer dependent upon you. I will win Miss Wynde and her fortune, or I’ll blow my brains out. Lally is lost to me, but all is not lost, as I thought this morning. I like Miss Wynde. I even love her already, strange as it may seem, but I do not and cannot love her as I love poor Lally. But I shall marry her and make her happy. I am desperate, but by no means helpless and hopeless.”