“It is absolutely necessary,” I answered. “I can explain myself to you in no other way.” He bent his head, and sighed resignedly. “You and your husband are not living together at the present time,” he resumed. “Does that mean that Eustace has left you?” “He has left me, and has gone abroad.” “Without any necessity for it?” “Without the least necessity.” “Has he appointed no time for his return to you?” “If he persevere in his present resolution, Mr. Dexter, Eustace will never return to me.” For the first time he raised his head from his embroidery--with a sudden appearance of interest. “Is the quarrel so serious as that?” he asked. “Are you free of each other, pretty Mrs. Valeria, by common consent of both parties?” The tone in which he put the question was not at all to my liking. The look he fixed on me was a look which unpleasantly suggested that I had trusted myself alone with him, and that he might end in taking advantage of it. I reminded him quietly, by my manner more than by my words, of the respect which he owed to me. “You are entirely mistaken,” I said. “There is no anger--there is not even a misunderstanding between us. Our parting has cost bitter sorrow, Mr. Dexter, to him and to me.” He submitted to be set right with ironical resignation. “I am all attention,” he said, threading his needle. “Pray go on; I won’t interrupt you again.” Acting on this invitation, I told him the truth about my husband and myself quite unreservedly, taking care, however, at the same time, to put Eustace’s motives in the best light that they would bear. Miserrimus Dexter dropped his embroidery on his lap, and laughed softly to himself, with an impish enjoyment of my poor little narrative, which set every nerve in me on edge as I looked at him. “I see nothing to laugh at,” I said, sharply. His beautiful blue eyes rested on me with a look of innocent surprise. “Nothing to laugh at,” he repeated, “in such an exhibition of human folly as you have just described?” His expression suddenly changed his face darkened and hardened very strangely. “Stop!” he cried, before I could answer him. “There can be only one reason for you’re taking it as seriously as you do. Mrs. Valeria! you are fond of your husband.” “Fond of him isn’t strong enough to express it,” I retorted. “I love him with my whole heart.” Miserrimus Dexter stroked his magnificent beard, and contemplatively repeated my words. “You love him with your whole heart? Do you know why?” “Because I can’t help it,” I answered, doggedly.