His face and glance were so darkly grave, that the covert sneer was almost hidden. But she felt it. "I shall never marry again, Captain Everard." "Never? You surprise me! Six years--nay, seven, a widow, and with innumerable attractions. Oh, you cannot mean it!" She made a sudden, passionate gesture--looked at him, then away. "It is useless--worse than useless, folly, madness, to lift the veil from the irrevocable past. But don't you think, don't you, Lady Thetford, that you might have been equally happy if you had married _me_?" She made no reply. She stood gazing seaward, cold and still. "I was madly, insanely, absurdly in love with pretty Ada Vandeleur in those days, and I think I would have made her a good husband; better, however--forgive me--than I ever made my poor dead wife. But you were wise and ambitious, my pretty Ada, and bartered your black eyes and raven ringlets to a higher bidder. You jilted me in cold blood, poor love-sick devil that I was, and reigned resplendent as my Lady Thetford. Ah! you knew how to choose the better part, my pretty Ada!" "Captain Everard, I am sorry for the past--I have atoned, if suffering can atone. Have a little pity, and let me alone!" He stood and looked at her silently, gravely. Then said, in a voice deep and calm: "We are both free! Will you marry me now, Ada!" "I cannot!" "But I love you--I have always loved you. And you--I used to think you loved me!" He was strangely calm and passionless, voice and glance and face. But Lady Thetford had covered _her_ face, and was sobbing. "I did--I do--I always have! But I cannot marry you. I will love you all my life; but don't, _don't_ ask me to be your wife!" "As you please!" he said, in the same passionless voice. "I think it is best myself; for the George Everard of to-day is not the George Everard who loved you eight years ago. We would not be happy--I know that. Ada, is that your son?" "Yes." "I should like to look at him. Here, my little baronet! I want to see you." The boy, who had been looking curiously at the stranger, ran up at a sign from his mother. The tall captain lifted him in his arms and gazed in his small, thin face, with which his bright tartan plaid contrasted harshly. "He hasn't a look of the Thetfords. He is your own son, Ada. My little baronet, what is your name?" "Sir Rupert Thetford," answered the child, struggling to get free. "Let me go--I don't know you!" The captain set him down with a grim smile; and the boy clung to his mother's skirts, and eyed the tall stranger askance. "I want to go home, mamma! I'm tired and hungry." "Presently, dearest. Run to William, he has cake for you. Captain Everard, I shall be happy to have you at dinner." "Thanks; but I must decline. I go back to London to-night. I sail for India again in a week." "So soon! I thought you meant to remain."