“No, no,” she shrieked. “Harry’s murderer—I will never see him again. I wish he was dead—I wish I was dead!” She burst into uncontrolled hysterical sobs and buried her face in the chair cushions. Her husband’s face darkened furiously; he moved away from her, his teeth in his lip. The Viscount looked up from his desk. “If you have not a Cicero,” he said, “perhaps you have an Epictetus? This allusion I must verify.” The Master of Stair walked impatiently to the shelves and finding a volume gave it to his father, then he turned to his wife. “Madam, cease that wailing,” he said. “You will try me beyond endurance.” She made a show of stifling her sobs, and rose, dabbing at her eyes; her fair hair and her white dress seemed to gather all the light in the room; she gleamed from head to foot. “You take no thought of me,” she said wretchedly. “Neither you nor my lord there seem to think—there—is any pity to be felt for—me.” She gave a bitter glance toward the placid figure of the Viscount. “He does not care,” she panted, “nor do you—what have I done to be so punished?” She turned her tear-blurred face to her husband. “I do not come of a cursed family,” she said hoarsely. “Why should I be dragged into your evil fortunes? Why should I pay for your wicked blood, my God, why?” She clasped her hands passionately in the intensity of the revolt of a weak thing; her eyes were unnaturedly dilated, her bosom rose and fell with her struggling breath; terror and aversion were expressed in every line of her shrinking figure. “I have done nothing that my children should be cursed,” she said wildly. “It is you—you—” The Master of Stair interrupted her. “Take care,” he said, very white. “You utter the unforgivable—” “I shall not ask you to forgive,” she answered. “I do not want your favor—you and your blighted race have crazed me—I will say it—I am haunted—day and night—and it is unjust.” Her voice was shrill and tortured. “It is unjust that I should so pay because I was foolish and very young—and married you. God knows I never loved you!” Her words rang cruelly round the vast room and seemed to echo through the pause that followed; the only sound was the rustle of the leaves of the Viscount’s book as he turned them and the scratch of his pen as he made a note; the Master of Stair looked sternly before him, his face hardened to a great bitterness. Lady Dalrymple shuddered; the reaction of her passion came in the heavy tears that rolled down her face. With a childish gesture she put up the back of her hand to hide them, and turned miserably away across the room. Down the whole gloomy length she went slowly with a weary air of hopelessness; the Viscount looked up from his book, watched her and when the door closed on her gave a little sigh of relief.