Years! during which he had learnt chapter by chapter, the history of woman's frailty and deceit. Now, he suddenly felt old, all the buoyancy had gone out of his life, and he was left worn and weary, with a millstone of shattered illusions hung around his neck. It had come about so strangely. She was not exquisite "Fanny," mysterious, elusive, after all. She was Lady Ursula Glynde. Well! what mattered that? The name first pronounced by the Queen's trenchant voice had grated harshly on his ear. Why? At first he could not remember. Fanny or Ursula? Why not? The woman whom conventionality had in some sense ordained that he should marry. Why not? Surely 'twas for him to thank conventionality for this kind decree. But the Lady Ursula Glynde! When did he last hear that name? Surely it was on that Spaniard's lips half an hour ago, accompanied by a thinly veiled, coarse jest and an impudent laugh. But his "Fanny!"--that white-clad, poetic embodiment of his most exalted dreams! Those guileless blue eyes--or were they black?--that childlike little head so fitly crowned with gold! No! no! _that_ was his "Fanny," not the other woman, whom the Queen was even now upbraiding for immodest conduct. Now she was speaking . . . stammering . . . denying nothing. . . . Where was that Ursula Glynde? . . . the other woman . . . she who was false and wanton. . . . "Fanny" was pure and sweet and girlish. . . . Ursula alone was to blame. Where was she? "Has the Marquis de Suarez dared . . ." It was her voice. Why did she name that man? She knew him then? . . . had met him at East Molesey Fair? . . . she did not deny it . . . she only asked if he had dared . . . whilst the Spaniard had said, with a flippant shrug of the shoulders, that the acquaintanceship had ripened into . . . friendship. Wessex' whole soul rebelled at this suggestion. He had but one desire, to see her, to ask her--she would tell him the truth, and he would believe whatever she told him with those dear red lips of hers, which he had kissed. He felt quite calm, still, firm in his faith, and sustained by his great love. He went to the door and found it locked. A trifling matter surely, but why was it locked? She had been upset, confused, ere the Queen had come. She would not allow him the great joy of proclaiming to all who were there to hear, that he had wooed and won her. Once more there came that torturing question: Why? So averse was she to his appearing before the Queen, that she had locked the door for fear that the exuberant happiness which was in him, should cause him to precipitate a climax which she obviously dreaded. Why? Why? Why? But he would respect her wishes, and though his very sinews ached with the longing to break down that door, to see her then and there, not to endure for another second this maddening agony which made his temples throb and his brain reel, he made no attempt to touch the bolts again. Just then there came the Queen's final words to her: