“Will you permit me to inquire the reason?” he asked, following her and interposing himself between her and the garden. “I would rather not tell you,” she answered in a low voice, picking off the blossoms of syringa that embowered the gate, and putting them into her basket. “But you will have to tell me,” he exclaimed, leaning his back against the gate and setting his straw hat with its zingari ribbon still farther over his eyes. “I cannot,” she faltered, blushing furiously. “There is no good in telling you; it will only make you--I mean,” correcting herself, “it may annoy you.” “Annoy me!” he echoed; “I am quite accustomed to that. Pray don’t study me in the matter; I am used to being _annoyed_, as you call it. Come, do not trifle with me any longer--tell me at once why you are not visited in the neighbourhood.” “I told you before I could not,” looking down the gravel path that lay between them and the house, and evidently preparing for an abrupt departure. “You shall not go!” he exclaimed, seizing her by the wrist, as if he had divined her intention. “Neither shall you pass through this gate till you answer my question,” putting his shoulder against it and looking the very picture of resolution. “Why do you tease me like this, Reginald? Do not detain me. Please do not ask me to answer your question,” she urged, endeavouring to withdraw her hand. “You must, and you _shall_ tell me,” he said angrily, involuntarily squeezing her wrist still tighter. “Neither you nor I shall stir until I know. As your guardian it is my duty to inquire into the reason that you are excluded from society.” “Only as my guardian--not as my husband?” she asked in a low voice. “Certainly--only as your guardian. You gave your husband a lesson lately that he is not likely to forget. Never allude to him again, if you please.” “But I did not mean--at least I am sorry--I was hasty,” she stammered. “Your sorrow comes too late--your sincerity is doubtful. Pray excuse my rudeness, but remember that it is to your guardian _only_ you are speaking,” letting go her hand at last. “Then, as my guardian, I don’t mind telling you,” turning away her face, and becoming perfectly scarlet as far as the ear and cheek that were visible were concerned. “They think--they say----” “Go on,” he urged inexorably. “That I am a _divorcée_. There!” she cried, facing him, “the murder is out!” “What!” he exclaimed in a voice that, although not loud, made her start. “You dare,” he said slowly, “to repeat such a tale to me?” “I had no choice; you _would_ hear it. There is no use in being angry with _me_; it is not my fault. You know very well that I do not deserve such a stigma--that every thought in my heart belongs to Maurice, and,” she added almost under her breath--“_you_.” His sharp ears caught the last word.