“Dear Lady Emily,” he said, “all the kind things that you said were spoken to a stranger. You did not know me. I did not mean anyone to know me. It is you who have commanded the truth. You must have it. I am not the person I seem to be. I am not the person to whom words such as yours should have been spoken. Even my name is an assumed one. I should prefer to leave it at that--if you are content.” “I am not content,” she answered quietly; “I must hear more.” He bowed. “I am a man,” he said, “who spent ten years in prison, the ten best years of my life. A woman sent me there--a woman swore my liberty away to save her reputation. I was never of a forgiving disposition, I was never an amiably disposed person. I want you to understand this. Any of the ordinary good qualities with which the average man may be endowed, and which I may have possessed, are as dead in me as hell fire could burn them. You have spoken of me as of a man who failed to find a sufficient object in life. You were wrong. I have an object, and I do my best to live up to it. I hate the whole world of men and women who laughed their way through life whilst I suffered--tortures. I hate the woman who sent me there. I have no heart, nor any sense of pity. Now perhaps you can understand my life and the manner of it.” Her hands were clasped to the side of her head. Something of horror had stolen into the steadfast gaze with which she was still regarding him. Yet there were other things there which puzzled him. “This--is terrible!” she murmured. “Then you are not--Mr. Wingrave at all?” He hesitated. After all, it was scarcely worth while concealing anything now. “I am Sir Wingrave Seton,” he said. “You may remember my little affair!” She caught hold of his hands. “You poor, poor dear!” she cried. “How you must have suffered!” Wingrave had a terrible moment. What he felt he would never have admitted, even to himself. Her eyes were shining with sympathy, and it was so unexpected. He had expected something in the nature of a cold withdrawal; her silence was the only thing he had counted upon. It was a fierce, but short battle. His sudden grasp of her hands was relaxed. He stood away from her. “You are very kind,” he said. “As you can doubtless imagine, it is a little too late for sympathy. The years have gone, and the better part of me, if ever there was a better part, with them.” “I am not so sure of that!” she whispered. He looked at her coldly. “Why not?” “If you were absolutely heartless,” she said, “if you were perfectly consistent, why did you not make me suffer? You had a great chance! A little feigned affection, and then a few truths. You could have dragged me down a little way into the pit of broken hearts! Why didn’t you?” He frowned. “One is forced to neglect a few opportunities!” She smiled at him--delightfully.