'Child as I was, I had a strong will of my own,' said May--'a will which I was accustomed to indulge, no matter what opposition was made to it or by whom. My poor mother, who, in this instance at least, seemed to be endowed with strange foresight, prayed me to reject Lord Forestfield's advances, urging as a reason that she was sure I was but temporarily infatuated, and that I should soon repent my determination. I would not listen to her, I would not hear a word against him; I had my own way, and--this is the result.' 'Temporarily infatuated. Was Lady Stortford right? were you, then, so deeply fascinated by this man?' May paused an instant. 'All that you have ever heard or read of insane infatuation was nothing to mine,' she said; 'I worshipped him with all my soul. Brought up strictly as I had been, I believed there was no position in the world I would not have gladly accepted to insure always being at his side. I cannot tell,' she said, after another pause, 'why I am speaking thus freely to you, except that I have had no one in the world to open my heart to; and though I have never seen you before, I have instinctive confidence in you.' 'You will find that confidence is not misplaced,' said Uffington gravely. 'When did you first find your mother's words come true?' 'Not until some little time after she was dead, not until my husband had begun to weary of his plaything; for that I was, and nothing more. During the first months of our marriage, my life was one of perfect happiness; the man whom I adored was constant in his attentions to me; I was indulged in every whim, and flattered to the top of my bent. Money was recklessly lavished upon me, and as I had all I wished and all my pleasures were shared by my husband, my happiness was greater than even I ever deemed possible.' 'And that happiness lasted?' 'Just as long as pleased Lord Forestfield's fancy, and no longer. He told me afterwards, with much bitter frankness, that I ought to be very proud of having kept him in thrall for such a length of time, adding that he was changeable by nature, and had never before worshipped so long at one shrine.' 'What an infernal scoundrel!' muttered Uffington, under his breath. Then aloud: 'Did he break with you at once?' 'O no,' said May. 'So long as he cared for me in his own peculiar way, he had given me the fullest liberty, knowing that I never had any thought but for him; but after he wearied of me he began to grow, or to pretend to grow, absurdly jealous. It has been truly said that there is no love without jealousy, and could I have persuaded myself that my husband's passion for me had not changed, I should not have minded jealousy and suspicion, even misplaced as his were, but should rather have regarded them as proofs of his attachment; but knowing what I did, it was easy for me to perceive that this jealousy sprang from temper, and not from love, and was a degradation instead of what it would otherwise have been, a tribute.'