The Bishop looked up suddenly, his attention arrested by Rachel's voice. There is a white heat of anger that mimics the pallor of a fainting fit. The Bishop thought she was about to swoon, until he saw her eyes. Those gentle faithful eyes were burning. He shrank as one who sees the glare of fire raging inside familiar windows. "My poor child," he said, and he sat down heavily in his leather arm-chair. Rachel still stood. She looked at him, and her lips moved, but no sound came forth. The Bishop looked intently at her. "Where is Scarlett?" he said. "Hugh is gone," she said, stammering. "I have broken off my engagement with him. He will never come back." And she fell suddenly on her knees, and hid her convulsed face against the arm of a chair. The Bishop did not move. He waited for this paroxysm of anger to subside. He had never seen Rachel angry before in all the years he had known her, but he watched her without surprise. Only stupid people think that coal cannot burn as fiercely as tow. She remained a long time on her knees, her face hidden. The Bishop did not hurry her. At last she began to sob silently, shuddering from head to foot. Then he came and sat down near her, and took the cold clinched hands in his. "Rachel, tell me," he said, gently. She tried to pull her hands away, but he held them firmly. He obliged her to look up at him. She raised her fierce, disfigured face for a moment, and then let it fall on his hands and hers. "I am a wicked woman," she said. "Don't trouble about me. I'm not worth it. I thought I would have kept all suffering from him, but now--if I could make him suffer--I would." "I have no doubt he is suffering." "Not enough. Not like me. And I loved him and trusted him. And he is false, too, like that other man I loved; like you, only I have not found you out yet; like Hester; like all the rest. I will never trust any one again. I will never be deceived again. This is--the--second time." And Rachel broke into a passion of tears. The Bishop released her hands and felt for his own handkerchief. Then he waited, praying silently. The clock had made a long circuit before she raised herself. "I am very selfish," she said, looking with compunction at the kind, tired face. "I ought to have gone to my room instead of breaking down here. Dear Bishop, forgive me. It is past now. I shall not give way again." "Will you make me some tea?" he said.