“I am so pleased to see you, Miss Audaer,” he said, courteously enough. His old pedagogic manners seemed to have given place to a burlesque of those of the earl. “But I am surprised, too, for I had heard that you were married.” “No,” said Deborah, “I am not married.” “Well, I am jealously inclined to be glad that no unworthy wretch of a man has yet obtained a prize much too good for him. But matrimony seems to be in the air just now, and I didn’t know whether you had yet fallen a victim. Rees and Lady Marion Cenarth are the last pair. But of course you’ve heard that. It’s a secret at present, and I’m the letter-carrier.” He held out for her inspection a letter, stamped and directed to “M.C.” at a shop in South Audley-street. Deborah was for the moment so absolutely stunned as to be incapable, not only of showing, but of feeling anything. She looked at the envelope and appeared to be examining the address, which she perceived to be in Rees’s handwriting. She was intelligent enough to understand in a moment the meaning of Rees’s strange love-making and the extent to which the evil influence of the man before her had corrupted the unhappy lad. At the same time there sprang up in her mind a defiant determination that this depraved Goodhare should not triumph in her humiliation. “I did not know of it,” she said at last, very quietly, “though I rather guessed at something of the sort from his manner. Are they already married then?” she went on; and, having quite recovered her serenity she looked up in his face. Goodhare was puzzled, disappointed. This she saw and hated him for. “I’m not sure whether they’re married yet,” he said; “but, at any rate, they’re going to be. They’ve been corresponding all this year.” “Oh dear, I hope the earl won’t be very angry.” Goodhare’s face, as usual, grew black at the mention of the earl’s name. “I don’t know, I’m sure,” he said, shortly. “But I don’t suppose he’ll be pleased.” “I do hope, though, that he’ll forgive them very soon. But now I must say good-bye to you, Mr. Goodhare, for my mother must be by this time waiting for me at Rees’s lodgings.” She bowed to him, and turning, walked rapidly back to St. Martin’s-lane, where she found Mrs. Pennant in the act of getting out a cab. “What is the matter, my dear? You look so dreadfully white,” cried the old lady on seeing her. The girl ran up and clung to her hand. “Mamma, mamma, don’t go in again, or if you do, let me go away without you,” she whispered in a hoarse voice. “I cannot bear it.” Mrs. Pennant was a strangely reticent woman, whose thoughts were difficult to guess. She turned as pale as the girl herself, however, and drawing her into the cab without more inquiries, directed the cabman to drive to Paddington. The two ladies reached Carstow late that night; but neither during the journey, on their arrival, nor ever afterwards, did they exchange confidences on the subject of the impressions the visit to Rees had left on their minds.