Henceforward, as before, she had a part to act--that of indifference. If possible, there must be no pallid face shown, no haggard eyes; no tell-tale sighs must betray the agony of heart--the great sorrow that consumed her for the loss of her dead love; and wonderingly she looked at her white and already worn countenance in her mirror. Oh, that Allan were returned! from him she would know all. Allan knew the secret of her heart, sympathised with it, and would relate everything; but she could not divest herself of an awful and haunting fancy that this tragedy--beyond the chances of military life--was her fault; and that in the recklessness and despair of his heart, Evan Cameron had risked his life too rashly and lost it. When this conviction came upon her, tears streamed down her cheeks--hot salt tears--which she made no effort to restrain; and on suddenly discovering her thus--after the departure of his guests, Sir Harry Hurdell and Mr. Poole--Sir Paget felt his soul stung with jealous fury. He regarded her sternly rather than lovingly, and puffed out his chest with what he deemed an air of offended dignity. Yet he attempted to take her hand. 'Do not touch me,' said Eveline, imploringly; 'at least not just--just now.' 'Upon my word, madam! Do you understand what your romantic pity for this--this person implies?' he asked, grimly, while polishing his bald head with his handkerchief till it shone like a billiard ball. 'He has no father or mother--no sister to weep for him--none but myself to sorrow for him.' 'Well?' 'And he died like a gentleman, upholding the honour of Queen and country, and the name of Cameron,' said Eveline, a little defiantly. 'Bosh! I suppose he was paid for all that? But enough of this. May I ask, have you no home interests and home ties like other married women?' Eveline made no reply; so, with a violent jerk of his head, Sir Paget spoke again. 'Listen to me, Lady Puddicombe.' 'I am doing so.' 'To me you seem like one of those oddities or evil spirits one reads of only in novels.' 'How?' 'Having had a romance in your life, or fancying you had one, and believing you have married the wrong man, and all that sort of stuff, you like to live and brood on a memory. Is it so, Lady Puddicombe? Answer me--did you actually love this fellow Cameron?' 'Yes,' she replied, wincing, as he laid his coarse hand rather roughly on her delicate shoulder. 'Indeed. And you love him still?' 'He is dead--he is dead--and perhaps it is a sin to brood over the past.' 'An infernal futility, at all events. All this is pleasant for me, madam,' said he, applying himself to polishing his pate again. A wiser man might have partly ignored the affair, in the hope that it must in time pass away; but her unmistakable emotion of grief for Cameron's death proved somewhat beyond the patience of Sir Paget, who recurred to it warmly.