“Whether you are mad or not I cannot say,” she retorted scornfully. “I hope you are sane enough to understand that I leave this house to-morrow, never to return. For the future, you and I are _strangers_.” “This is mere childish folly,” returned her husband angrily; “you don’t know _what_ you are saying. Because Miss Fane has been wicked enough to put all manner of hideous ideas into your foolish head, you are ready to run away like the orthodox heroine of a three-volume novel. “Do you suppose?” he continued very gravely, “that I shall permit you to take the law into your own hands like this, or suffer you--a girl in your teens, a three-months’ wife--to leave your home in such a manner? Is _this_ the way you keep your wedding vows----” “Wedding vows!” interrupted Alice, hastily pulling off her ring and tossing it on the table, where it spun for a second, and then collapsed into silence. “Wedding vows! I’ve none to keep! I am free! Show that certificate to whom you will, even to the most ignorant, and they will say, that whoever may be your wife--_I_ am not----” She paused for a moment, half choked. “And not being your wife, you can scarcely expect my father’s daughter to remain _here_. You are a hypocrite,” she continued, speaking rapidly and trembling with excitement. “A hypocrite! for you appeared to be all that was good; and I know you to be all that is bad----It _was_ bad, wicked, shameful,” stamping her foot, “to deceive an orphan confided to your care.” She paused again, breathless. “Pray go on, madam--do not spare me,” said her husband hoarsely. He was leaning one elbow on the chimney-piece. Indignation, horror, and scorn were chasing each other in his eyes. “You married me,” resumed Alice, “or rather _pretended_ to marry me, because I was your ward. It was an easy way to solve _that_ problem, which must otherwise have been a trouble and a bore. I was young, rich, and, if _you_ were to be believed, exceedingly pretty--nothing could be more suitable; but why did you forget that you had a wife in India? Had you not better bring her home? Her position may not be properly understood at Cheetapore,” with withering contempt. Smash went a valuable, a priceless old chimney ornament, thanks to Sir Reginald’s restless elbow. “I shall go away to-morrow, say what you will, and never see you again as long as I live. You may hush the matter up; you may say that I am dead. You have nothing to fear from me. I have neither father nor brother. In years to come I may forget you, and I may forgive you; but should I live to be a hundred, I will never see you or speak to you again.” She stopped abruptly, and looked at her husband with glowing angry eyes. She had relieved the pent-up feelings of her heart in a perfect torrent of reproach. Her utterance was so rapid as to be almost inarticulate, and the tide of her passion carried all before it. With a motion to Sir Reginald to permit her to pass, she was preparing to leave the room.