“Well, what of that? Your husband looks such a dear--any one can see he’s awfully gone on you. What’s to prevent your getting it out of him?” Lydia flushed. “I’m not a spy!” she exclaimed. “A spy--a spy? How dare you?” Mrs. Cope flamed out. “Oh, I don’t mean that either! Don’t be angry with me--I’m so miserable.” She essayed a softer note. “Do you call that spying--for one woman to help out another? I do need help so dreadfully! I’m at my wits’ end with Trevenna, I am indeed. He’s such a boy--a mere baby, you know; he’s only two-and-twenty.” She dropped her orbed lids. “He’s younger than me--only fancy! a few months younger. I tell him he ought to listen to me as if I was his mother; oughtn’t he now? But he won’t, he won’t! All his people are at him, you see--oh, I know _their_ little game! Trying to get him away from me before I can get my divorce--that’s what they’re up to. At first he wouldn’t listen to them; he used to toss their letters over to me to read; but now he reads them himself, and answers ‘em too, I fancy; he’s always shut up in his room, writing. If I only knew what his plan is I could stop him fast enough--he’s such a simpleton. But he’s dreadfully deep too--at times I can’t make him out. But I know he’s told your husband everything--I knew that last night the minute I laid eyes on him. And I _must_ find out--you must help me--I’ve got no one else to turn to!” She caught Lydia’s fingers in a stormy pressure. “Say you’ll help me--you and your husband.” Lydia tried to free herself. “What you ask is impossible; you must see that it is. No one could interfere in--in the way you ask.” Mrs. Cope’s clutch tightened. “You won’t, then? You won’t?” “Certainly not. Let me go, please.” Mrs. Cope released her with a laugh. “Oh, go by all means--pray don’t let me detain you! Shall you go and tell Lady Susan Condit that there’s a pair of us--or shall I save you the trouble of enlightening her?” Lydia stood still in the middle of the path, seeing her antagonist through a mist of terror. Mrs. Cope was still laughing. “Oh, I’m not spiteful by nature, my dear; but you’re a little more than flesh and blood can stand! It’s impossible, is it? Let you go, indeed! You’re too good to be mixed up in my affairs, are you? Why, you little fool, the first day I laid eyes on you I saw that you and I were both in the same box--that’s the reason I spoke to you.” She stepped nearer, her smile dilating on Lydia like a lamp through a fog. “You can take your choice, you know; I always play fair. If you’ll tell I’ll promise not to. Now then, which is it to be?” Lydia, involuntarily, had begun to move away from the pelting storm of words; but at this she turned and sat down again. “You may go,” she said simply. “I shall stay here.” IV