“It is possible,” said Pauline drily. “I have met your sister three times, but in seasons of distress we women are obliged to cling to each other. As for Miss D’Avray and me, we live next door to each other. What more natural than that I should call on her this evening? And finding her in a condition of--shall I say?--despair, what more natural than that I should ask her what was the matter, and what more natural, seeing that she has no women friends here, and is of a nature that demands sympathy, than that on the spur of the moment she should confide in me?” “I assure you, Miss Dartmouth,” said Carpentaria, “that I was entirely unaware of my sister’s despair--as you call it. What precisely has she confided to you?” “Why, about her engagement to Cousin Ilam, and your opposition.” “Pardon me, there has been no engagement,” said Carpentaria. “Pardon me,” said Pauline, “there has been an engagement, because my cousin and your half-sister made it. Is there anybody better qualified than them to make an engagement?” She lifted her chin. “Well,” said Carpentaria. “Let us assume that there was an engagement.” “They were to be married to-morrow,” remarked Pauline calmly. “To-morrow!” Carpentaria exclaimed, aghast. “Secretly?” “Why do you pretend to be surprised? As for the secrecy, your opposition has forced them to secrecy, because your sister is afraid of you.” “And now that your cousin has disappeared, of course, they can’t be married to-morrow,” mused Carpentaria. “Hence this woe.” “Why have you taken such extreme measures, such cruel measures, such wicked measures?” asked Pauline, full of indignation. “I can understand well enough that you, as a great artist, cannot be expected to behave like other people; I can understand you doing mad things, original things. I can understand you defying the law, and taking the most serious risks on yourself. But I can’t understand you being so cruel to your sister, and so utterly beside yourself, as to carry off Mr. Ilam by force.” Her cheeks had flushed. “By force?” murmured Carpentaria. Then he laughed loudly, violently, magnificently, after his manner. His laugh resounded through the deserted gardens. “Juliette thinks I have removed her betrothed by force?” he queried. “Naturally she does!” said Pauline. “The most extraordinary rumours are about. It is even said that you have had a quarrel and killed him.” “Tut-tut!” said Carpentaria, and after clearing his throat he proceeded: “Miss Dartmouth, will you kindly fix your eyes on mine. I tell you I have had nothing whatever to do with your cousin’s disappearance, and that I was entirely unaware of his intention to marry Juliette to-morrow.” She gazed at him doubtfully. “On your honour?” “No,” he said proudly, “not on my honour. When I talk to a person as I am talking to you, if I say a thing is so, it is so. I decline to back my assertions with my honour.” “I believe you,” she whispered softly, and her eyes fell.