She withdrew her hand. “Don't talk of happiness. It's a delusion.” “Every living thing can be happy after its kind,” said Herold. “Look at this great bumble-bee swinging in the campanula.” “You were n't sent here to talk to me about bumble-bees,” she said with an air of defiance. “No. I came to speak to you about John.” It was a thrust of the scalpel. It hurt him cruelly to deal it, but it had to be dealt. He closely watched its effect. Her wan face grew even whiter, and her lips grew white, and she held herself rigid. Her eyes were hard. “I forbid you to mention his name to me.” “I must disobey you. No, my dearest,” said he, gently barring the path, “you must listen. John is as unhappy and as ill as you yourself. He is suffering greatly. I don't know what to do with him. He 's going on like a madman. You must not be unjust.” “I 'm not unjust. I know the truth at last, and I judge accordingly.” “You are hard, Stella. Perhaps that's the first unkind word anybody has ever spoken to you--and I've got to speak it, worse luck! John would have told you long ago of the unhappy things in his life if he had thought they could possibly concern you. As soon as he found that they might do so, he told you frankly.” “He has told me nothing,” said Stella, icily. “He wrote to you about his marriage over a week ago.” “I did n't read the letter. I never read his letters. I don't take them out of the envelopes. I destroy them.” Herold stared in amazement. “Then how,” he cried, “do you know what you call the truth? What do you know?” “He married a woman who is still alive. I know a great deal more,” she added, ingenuous still in her cold disdain. “More?” His brain worked against baffling conjecture. Who could have told her? Suddenly his eyes caught the shadow of tragedy. He made a step forward and closed his hands on her arms, and even then he felt the shock and pain of their fragility. In London, a short time ago, they were round and delicately full. “Stellamaris darling, tell me. It is I, Walter, who have loved you all your life, and to whom you have always told everything. Something none of us know has happened. What is it?” She swayed back from him, and half closed her eyes. “Let me go,” she said faintly. “Such things are not to be spoken of. They are not to be thought of. They only come in horrible dreams one can't help.” He put an arm round her instinctively to save her from falling. “Who told you? You must speak.” She wrenched herself free and stood rigid again. “She told me, his wife herself.” “His wife!” His head reeled. “His deserted wife, a woman with green eyes and thin lips. I suppose you know her. She came down here to tell me.” “My God!” cried Herold. “My God in heaven!” And for the first time Stella saw a man in white, shaking anger, showing his teeth and shaking his fists. “When was it?”