Off and on during the remainder of the day this question haunts me, and only a supreme effort of the will prevents my connecting it with the name of "Marmaduke." Surely, surely, I cannot be becoming that most detestable of all things, a jealous, suspicious wife! I am unhappy and restless in spite of all my endeavors to be otherwise. I wander through the house conversing with feverish gayety with any one I chance to meet, longing eagerly, I scarcely know why, for the return of the sportsmen. Yet, as the twilight falls and the shades of evening gather, instead of waiting for their coming, I have Dora in full possession of the tea-tray, and, quitting the drawing-room, go upstairs to pass a solitary and purposeless hour in my boudoir--the pretty little sanctum, all blue and silver, that associations have endeared to me. Finding myself as restless here, however, as elsewhere, I leave it as the clock chimes half-past six, and, turning into the picture gallery, begin to stare stupidly enough upon the grim cavaliers and immodest shepherdesses, who in their turn stare back at me. Suddenly I become conscious that some cold air is blowing upon me, and, raising my eyes, perceive the lower window to be partly open. I shiver, and involuntarily move forward to close it. Outside this window runs a balcony, reached by stone steps from the ground beneath, and as I draw nearer to it sounds coming from thence fall upon my ears--first a woman's voice, and then a man's. Their words, though softly uttered, are thoroughly distinct; a fragment of their conversation, unchecked by the chill wind, passes close by me and makes itself heard. "So _you_ thought _once_. You cannot have altogether forgotten the old times--the past memories---" It is Blanche Going's voice, and the accent strikes me as being reproachfully, nay _tenderly_ impassioned. For a moment my heart stops beating. A cold dampness covers my face. I _cannot_ move. I hardly dare to breathe. Oh, to whom are these words addressed? _Whose_ voice will give her back an answer? Sir Mark speaks; and with a relief that through its intensity is for the instant acutest pain, I stagger against the wall near me, and stand motionless to recover calm. "Can anything be more melancholy than 'old times?'" murmured Sir Mark, lightly, without the faintest trace of tenderness in his tone. "Believe me, we can have no real happiness in this life until we have learned successfully how to forget." I leave the window noiselessly, but as I go the words and their meaning follow me. "Old times"--"past memories"--can it indeed be that in the "long ago" lie love passages that were once fresh between Lady Blanche and Sir Mark Gore?