‘I will not think it,’ cries he vehemently, ‘until you say it. Ella, my beloved, what has this old man’s wealth to do with you or me? What has the world to do with us? Come now, look into it with me. Here are you, and here am I, and what else is there in all the wide world for us two, Ella?’ And now he breaks into earnest, most manly entreaties, and wooes her with all his soul, and at last—as a true lover should—upon his knees. But she resists him, pushing his clasping hands away. ‘I will not! I will not!’ repeats she steadfastly. ‘Oh, you are cold; you do not care,’ cries he suddenly. He springs to his feet, angry, yet filled with an admiration for her that has, if not increased his love, made it more open to him. A strong man himself, and hard to move, he can see the splendid strength of this poor girl, who, because of her love for him, refuses his love for her. His sudden movement has upset the small table on which the dressing-case is standing, and brings it heavily to the ground. There is a crash, a breaking asunder of the sides of the case, and here on the carpet before their astonished gaze lies a small sheaf of letters and a faded photograph. Where had they come from? Had there been a secret drawer? Wyndham, stooping, picks them up. A name catches his eye. Why, this thing, surely, is a certificate of marriage! * * * * * As he reads, hurriedly, breathlessly, going from one letter to another and back again, from the few pages of a small disconnected diary to the marriage certificate in his other hand, his face grows slowly white as death. ‘Oh, what is it?’ cries Ella at last. ‘Give me time.’ His tone is full of ill-repressed agitation. Again he reads. The girl drops on her knees beside him, her face no less white than his. What does it all mean? What secret do these old letters hold? The photograph is lying still upon the floor, and her eyes, riveting themselves upon it, feel at once as though they were looking at someone—someone remembered—loved! She stares more eagerly. Surely it reminds her, too, of ... of—she leans closer over it—of someone feared and hated! Oh! how could that gentle face be feared—or hated—and yet, was there not someone, who—— ‘Oh, I know it!’ cries she suddenly, violently. She springs to her feet as if stung, and turns a ghastly face on Wyndham. ‘Look at it!’ cries she, gasping, pointing to the photograph at her feet. ‘It is like your aunt, Mrs. Prior.’ ‘Like your aunt!’ says Wyndham slowly, emphatically. The hand with the letters in it has dropped to his side, but he is holding those old documents as if in a vice. ‘Mine—Mrs. Prior—oh no! oh no!’ says Ella, making a gesture of fear and horror.