It could not be expected that the days would continue to glide thus smoothly along; nevertheless the peace was broken rather sooner than one would have anticipated. One morning, as Madeline rose from the breakfast table and put on her hat for a stroll along the sands, her husband laid his hand upon her arm and drew her into her seat again. ‘Madeline, _mon amie!_ he said in his blandest tone, ‘I wish to arrange with you concerning our domestic life. I should have wished the first advance to come from you; but since that cannot be, since you take so little interest in our _menage_ as to be indifferent to it, it is time for me to speak.’ The girl sat quietly where she had been placed, and fixed her eyes sadly upon the Frenchman. He had used her like a villain, but for the moment the part which he had played was partially or entirely forgotten. She thought only of the man who had first awakened romance within her. Had Monsieur Belleisle spoken kindly, had he infused into his tone and words one-half the tenderness which at one time he had at his command, she might have thrown herself into his arms, with tears of tenderness and sorrow; but his manner chilled her, and her rising tears were checked by the presence of Madame de Fontenay, who sat in the room quietly watching and waiting. Madeline remained silent; so the Frenchman spoke again-- ‘How do you suppose,’ said he, ‘that we are to live, my dear?’ Still Madeline was dumb--what could he mean by asking her such a question? ‘You will write,’ continued Monsieur Belleisle--‘write at once, for enough time has been wasted, to your English guardian--M’sieur White, I think you have called him--and ask him to send you two hundred pounds.’ Still Madeline stared in silence. She was not thinking of the Frenchman now. All her present surroundings faded away, and she saw only the pleasant little studio in St. John’s Wood, with the dearly beloved figure of White standing amidst his brushes, canvas, and paints. But he was not looking genially about him, as she had so often seen him do; his eyes were fixed with a look of sad reproach upon the painted face of a gipsy-like girl of ten, and his voice cried out with a ring of terrible sorrow-- ‘Madeline--my little Madeline!’ The girl saw and heard, and in her anguish she dropped her face in her hands and burst into a passionate flood of tears. They were the first tears she had shed since her marriage. The storm had been long in bursting; but now its violence was intense. For a time she remained utterly prostrated by her sorrow; when she raised her head she saw that the Frenchman was calmly looking on.. ‘Is it over?’ he asked. Madeline did not answer him; she stifled her sobs, dried her eyes, and walked over to the window. The Frenchman followed her with his eyes. ‘You are longing for your morning walk, my wife,’ he said; ‘_eh bien_, write the letter and you shall go.’ ‘I cannot write the letter, M’sieur Belleisle.’