"Well, well, well," says George, "I suppose there is no use in any one's speaking; but to me it is incomprehensible; why she cannot be content and happy in this charming; place, with the best fellow in the world for her husband, is more than I can fathom. But it seems to me now, Carrington, really, you know--that _you_ very seldom speak to _her_; eh?" (Good George--dear George.) "Why should I put myself in the way of a cold reply? I detest forcing myself upon any one--and when she is by her own avowal happier when absent from me. Bah! let us forget the subject: to me it is a hateful one." "Then why on earth, when you knew all this beforehand, did you insist on marrying her again?" "Because there was nothing else to be done. Better to bear a name distasteful to her than to bear none at all. I did it for her sake." "Then do you mean me to understand that you yourself had no interest in the matter?" There is a pause--a long one--and my heart actually stops beating; at length:--- "Do not think that," says 'Duke, in a low tone. "The love I felt for her on our first wedding-morning is, if possible, deeper and truer now. Though at times my chains gall and almost madden me, yet I would not exchange them for fetters soft as down. At least she is mine, insomuch that no other man can claim her. And I have this poor consolation in my loneliness, that, though she does not love me, she at all events cares for no one else." "Poor little Phyllis!" murmurs George Ashurst, tenderly. "You are a happy man, George," says 'Duke, adopting a lighter tone. "Do not let my troubles depress you." "Yes: Dora is a perfect wife," declares my brother-in-law, with honest content. "Good-bye Carrington; I will come over about that house either to-night or to-morrow morning early." "Better come to-night and sleep," urges 'Duke and George, half consenting, goes noiselessly down the stairs. When he has been gone at least five minutes, I steal from my concealment, and, entering the turret chamber, walk softly towards Marmaduke, who is standing with his back turned to me, gazing down through the window upon the lawn beneath. His attitude betokens deep thought. I go lightly to his side, and let my eyes follow the direction his have taken. "Dreaming, 'Duke?" I ask, gayly. He starts violently as I wake him from his reverie, and betrays astonishment not only at my presence at this moment, but also at my altered demeanor. "Almost, I think," he says, after a moment's hesitation. It is so long since I have addressed him with anything approaching to _bonhomie_. "How short the evenings are getting!" I go on, peering out into the dusk. "Marmaduke, do you remember the large party you had in these gardens before we were married?" "Yes." "And how we two stood just here and looked down upon them?" "I remember well." He is evidently intensely puzzled by my manner, which is cordial to the last degree. "How long ago it seems now! does it not." "Very long."