'It depends upon what you ask,' replied Mrs. Calverley with a smile. 'Tell me then--Mr. Calverley--your husband--was he very fond of you?' The few scattered bristles which did duty as Mrs. Calverley's eyebrows rose half an inch nearer her forehead with astonishment. 'Yes,' she replied after a moment's reflection; 'of course he was--devoted.' Something like a groan escaped from the stranger. 'And you--you loved him?' 'Very much in the same way,' said Mrs. Calverley, feeling herself for the first time in her life imbued with a certain amount of grim humour--'quite devoted to him.' 'Yes,' said the visitor sadly, 'that I can fully understand. Did you ever see or hear of his partner, Mr. Claxton?' 'I never saw him,' said Mrs. Calverley; 'I've heard of him often enough, oftener than I like. It was he that persuaded Mr. Calverley to going into that speculation about those iron-works which Mr. Jeffreys can make nothing of. But he wasn't a partner in the house; there are no partners in the house--only some one that Mr. Calverley knew in the City, and probably a designing swindler, for Mr. Calverley was a weak man, and this Claxton--' 'Mr. Claxton was the best man that ever walked this earth!' cried Alice, breaking forth, 'the kindest, the dearest, and the best.' 'Heyday!' cried Mrs. Calverley with a snort of defiance. 'And who may you be, who knows so much about Mr. Claxton, and who wants to know so much about Mr. Calverley?' 'That is right, James,' she added, 'light the gas;' and then she said in a lower tone, 'I shall be better able to judge the kind of visitor I have.' 'The gas was lighted and the servant left the room; Mrs. Calverley rose stiffly from her chair and advanced towards Alice, who remained seated. 'What is this,' she said in a strong voice, 'and who are you? coming here tricked out in these weeds to make inquiries, and to utter sentiments at which modest women would blush. Who are you, I say?' But while Mrs. Calverley had been speaking Alice had looked up, and her eyes had fallen upon a picture hanging against the wall. A big crayon head of John, her own old John, jut as she had known him, with the large bright eyes, the heavy thoughtful brow, and the lines round the mouth somewhat deeply graven. For an instant she bent her head before the picture, the next, with the tears welling up into her eyes, and in a low soft voice, without the slightest exaggeration in tone or manner, she said: 'You ask me who I am, and I will tell you!' Then pointing up to the portrait, 'I am that man's widow!' 'What!' screamed Mrs. Calverley. 'Do you know who that was?' 'No,' said Alice, 'except that he was my husband.' 'Why, woman!' exclaimed the outraged mistress of the house, in a torrent of rage, 'that was Mr. Calverley!'