‘What can you have to complain of? If anyone is fortunate, surely you are. You are your own mistress, you are well enough off to lead the life you choose, you have a charming companion, many friends----’ ‘Have I? I did not know that. Who are they?’ ‘Well, if there are few, it is your own choice. Those you possess are devoted to you. Look at myself, for instance; have I not been your firm friend for years?’ ‘You have indeed,’ she said huskily. ‘There are experiences in life which mercifully have been spared you, Eliza. These are the things which make the real tragedies, the things which may go on before the eyes of our neighbours without their seeing anything of them. I would rather die to-morrow than live my life over again. You know I speak truly; I know that you know; you made me understand that one day.’ She had turned away during his speech, for she could not trust her face, but at these last words she looked round. ‘I have never forgiven myself for the pain I caused you,’ she said; ‘I have never got over that. I am so rough--I know it--have you forgiven me, Robert?’ ‘It took me a little time, but I have done it,’ replied he, with an approving glance at the generosity he saw in his own heart. ‘I behaved cruelly--cruelly,’ she said. ‘Forget it,’ said Fullarton; ‘let us only remember what has been pleasant in our companionship. Do you know, my lady, years ago I was fool enough to imagine myself in love with you? You never knew it, and I soon saw my folly; mercifully, before you discovered it. We should have been as wretched in marriage as we have been happy in friendship. We should never have suited each other.’ ‘What brought you to your senses?’ inquired Lady Eliza with a laugh. She was in such agony of heart that speech or silence, tears or laughter, seemed all immaterial, all component parts of one overwhelming moment. He looked as a man looks who finds himself driven into a _cul-de-sac._ ‘It was--she,’ said Lady Eliza. ‘Don’t think I blame you, Fullarton.’ She could say that to him, but, as she thought of the woman in her grave, she pressed her hands together till the nails cut through the skin. At this moment Crauford, in the waistcoat he had selected, came through the garden door. As he stood before Lady Eliza the repressed feeling upon her face was so strong that he did not fail to notice it, but his observation was due to the fact that he saw his mother’s letter in Fullarton’s hand; that, of course, was the cause of her agitation, he told himself. But where was Cecilia? He looked round the garden. His civil, shadeless presence irritated Lady Eliza unspeakably as he stood talking to her, evidently deterred by his uncle’s proximity from mentioning the subject uppermost in his mind. He possessed the fell talent for silently emphasizing any slight moment of embarrassment. Robert watched him with grim amusement, too indolent to move away. Fordyce was like a picture-book to him.