She seemed to totter a moment; her white jewelled hand caught at the banisters. But almost with the act she had recovered herself. “You cannot guess how cruel you are,” she said. “But come if you will.” She led the way up the first flight and into her boudoir. I had never entered this room in all my life before, had never more than assayed in chance glimpses the wealth and costliness of its appointments. Now, as she shut us in together among the rich hangings, the velvet-lined cabinets and tables glistening with china, and old silver, and infinite _bijouterie_, I felt as if Fate had imposed on me a sacrilege which no pretext of duty could condone. There were lighted girandoles on the walls, a carpet soft as turf beneath my feet, a great fire leaping on the hearth. She drew a low chair to it, and sank down, resting her chin on her hand and frowning into the glow. I went and stood before her. “Lady Skene,” I said, “this is a beautiful room. It seems to embody in itself all that of comfort, and rich possession, and happy security for which so many of us are ready to barter away our souls.” She never moved or raised her eyes. “Happy!” she muttered. “Why, are you not?” I said. “Hardly worth while, then, to risk so much to gain so little. Neither happy nor secure, perhaps?” She looked up suddenly. “What have you found out? Have you been spying?” “Yes, I have been spying.” She rose to her feet, her hands clinched against her skirts. I had never seen her look so wretched or so lovely. “You can own it?” “Why not?” “So vile an admission!” “Who has there ever been to teach me it was vile? I have lived alone, Lady Skene,--untaught, unacknowledged, conforming to the pattern of my surroundings. If that moulded me to secrecy, who was to blame? If to be watchful and observant in the midst of enemies is a crime, I plead guilty to it with all my heart. There was always this much, this one unhappy riddle, to exercise my mind--why I, who longed for love so much, was denied my most natural claim to it; why my mother, of all the mothers in the world, could never bring herself to be a mother to the child who worshipped her. Well, my watching has borne fruit. I have discovered why, at last.” Her head had drooped, lower, lower. It was terrible so to stand before that love which had been my dream, and betray to it the fulness of my renunciation. Yet I had no choice. “Lady Skene,” I said, “I was in the Baby’s Garden that night you had your interview with Mr Dalston.” She was down now, crushed at my feet, her pride, her beauty, her queenly jewels, all in ruin before me. Was I not satisfied at last? The fire tinkled; the wind came like a hand on the casement; I could see by the motion of her fair shoulders how heavily she breathed. “Lady Skene,” I began again--and suddenly she caught at me like one going under in deep waters. “Not that--Richard--say it once--once--let me hear it on your lips.” “It is too late.”