“Lucille!” he gasped. “You are the last person whom I expected to see in Harrogate.” “But I am not surprised,” she answered, speaking with a slight French lisp, which added a charm to her rich, deep voice. “I knew that you were in Harrogate. That is why I came.” “But why do you wish to follow me, Lucille? What good can come of it?” “What good? All good. Is not love good? And do I not love you? Ah, Frank, you taught me to love you, and how can I unlearn it? It is happiness to me to see you and to speak to you.” “But see the misery that it has caused. We must part, Lucille. If you truly love me you will help me to retrieve my life, and not to wreck it further.” “Ah!” cried she, with a quick flash in her dark eyes. “You have seen her. You have been speaking with your wife again.” “Yes, I saw her to-day.” “By chance?” “Yes, by chance.” “And you are friends again?” “No, not friends.” “Ah, you wished it, but she would not have it. I can see it in your face. O Frank, how could you humble yourself to such a woman? How could you? To hold out your hand to her and to be refused! _Quelle dégradation!_ See how she has treated you--she, who is not worthy to be the wife of any honest man.” The color sprang to Onslow’s pale cheeks. It was one thing to know his wife’s faults, and it was another to hear about them. “That is an old story,” he said curtly. “We may let that drop.” “An old story? Why, she was with De Mürger last week in London.” “Fenella was?” “Yes, I saw them with my own eyes riding together in the Row.” Lord Francis started as if he had been stung. “Come here!” he said. There was a garden bench in a little recess, and he threw himself down upon it. Lucille de Vigny seated herself beside him, and a triumphant smile played over her dark and beautiful face as she marked with a sidelong glance the anger and chagrin which convulsed her companion’s features. “Is this true?” he cried. “I tell you, Frank, that I saw them with my own eyes. It is not my custom to say what is not true.” “They were riding together?” “Yes.” “And talking?” “Talking and laughing.” “By heavens, I will see that fellow De Mürger. I will shoot him, Lucille. It is not our custom in England to duel. But he is a foreigner. He will meet me. I have wished to avoid a scandal, but if they court one why should I spare them? In the Row, you say?” “Yes, and just when all the world was there.” “Heavens! it is maddening.” He sank his face in his hands and groaned aloud. “And what matter, after all?” said she, laying one delicately gloved hand upon his wrist. “Why should you trouble? What is she to you now? She is unworthy, and that is an end. _Tout est fini._ You are a free man, and may let her go her way while you go yours. Which way will be yours, Frank?”