"Ay"--interrupting me with a rapid shrug of her finely formed shoulders--"I pined, I hungered for a sight of your English baby face.--I the mistress of it all--skulked about these walls, and was hunted through your shrubberies like a common thief. Twice was I near detection; twice through my native cunning I evaded your stupid bulldogs of men. And each time I hugged myself to think I had the revenge _here_" laying both hands lightly on her bosom where the fatal paper once more lies. "I do not believe you," I reiterate, stupidly: "it is nothing but a wicked invention of your own. I am silly to feel even annoyance. My husband will soon be in then we shall hoar the truth." "We shall--the whole truth. His face will betray it. Then you shall hear of the happy evenings spent in Florence, beneath the eternal blue of the sky, when Carlotta Veschi lay with her dark head reclined upon her English lover's breast; when words of love fell hotly upon the twilight air; when vows were interchanged; when _his_ lips were pressed, warmly, tenderly, to--_mine_." "Be silent, woman!" I cry, passionately, breathing hard and painfully. Oh, the anguish! the torture! I raise my head a little higher, but my hand goes out and grasps unconsciously a friendly chair, to steady my failing limbs. "Does it distress you, Anima, all these loving details? From _his_ lips they will possibly fall more sweetly. I am but an interloper--only the despised worm that crawls into the rose's heart. Mine is the hand (unhappy one that I am) to lay waste the nest of the doves." "Here he is!" I cry joyfully, as I hear my husband's footsteps pass the window. The very crunching of the gravel beneath his heel rouses me. Hope once again springs warm within my breast. It is not, it cannot be true. He will send this horrible woman away, and reduce all my ridiculous fears to ashes. I run to him with unusual eagerness as he enters, and, smiling, he holds out his arms. But even before I can throw myself into them, what is it that comes across his face? What is this awful whiteness, this deadly look of terror? Why does he stagger back against the wall? Why do his hands fall lifeless to his sides? Why do his eyes grow large with unearthly horror? The woman stands where last she stood. She has not moved on his entrance, or made the faintest advance. Though slightly paler, the evil mockery still lingers is her eyes. She rakes one finger slowly, tragically, and points it at him. "I have found you," she says. "My--husband!" No reply. Both his shaking hands go up to hide his face. I run to him, and fling my arms around his neck. "Marmaduke, speak!" I cry. "Tell her she lies. 'Duke, 'Duke, raise your head and send her from this place. Why are you silent? Why will you not look at me? It is only I--your own Phyllis. Oh, Marmaduke, I am horribly frightened. Why don't you tell her to begone?" "Because he dare not," says my visitor, slowly. "Well, Marmaduke, have you no welcome for your wife?"