“It is already known to you,” answered Paul, in hollow tones. “But I will mention it when I have finished my narration. We were married. The ceremony over, we returned to the hotel where I had placed her, and where I had likewise taken up my abode. Within an hour after this fatal bond had been tied, an accidental observation on my part revealed to her the fact that I was _not_ the rich and titled man she had supposed me to be. I had asked her to relinquish the stage as a profession, and she laughingly answered that as the wife of a great English milord it would be impossible for her to continue the career to which she had meant to devote her life. I was confounded at the mistake into which she had so unhappily fallen, and endeavored to explain my real position to her.” Mrs. Desfrayne tapped her foot on the carpet with such violence that Paul stopped. “Go on--go on--go on!” she exclaimed. “This girl, whom I up to that moment had had the fatuity to imagine loved me for myself alone, went on in an ecstasy dilating on the future splendors of her lot. I at length succeeded in inducing her to listen to me. Then I laid before her the realities of my position, my limited income, the quietude of the life she would be obliged to lead. I spoke of you----” “How dared you speak of me to a person like that?” furiously asked Mrs. Desfrayne. “I--well, enough. If blamelessness of life, an unspotted name, could have atoned for other sins, even you, mother, must have granted her absolution. Enough. She was compelled to believe that she had made a most fearful mistake--she was like a tiger who---- My mother, it had been well for us--for many others--if that revelation could have come an hour before, instead of an hour after, our ill-starred union. The scene I never can forget. Sometimes in the dead hours of the night I am startled awake by the fancy that I am again going through it. I wonder, after the successive shocks of those few weeks, that I now live to give you the miserable recital.” Again he paced to and fro, as if in almost uncontrollable emotion. This time, on again pausing, he sank into the chair as if almost exhausted. His mother made no sign. The bitterness of her anger and disappointment exceeded, if that were possible, his darkest forebodings. She continued to tap her foot on the carpet, and her jeweled fingers twined and twisted in one another as if they must snap. This time she addressed no inquiry to him, but sat a silent image of despair and mortified anger.