“Certainly,” he said; “but all in its order. Simmons comes first, Stevenson afterwards. You have not seen my Etruscan collection.” Mrs. Nugent was aware that he had caught a floating ribbon of the light cloak she carried on her arm, and held it fast while he directed with his usual grave propriety the other lady by her side. “Now,” he said, looking up to her. If it was the only thing that could be done, then perhaps it was better that it should be done at once. He led her through the lines of gleaming glass, the fruit, and the flowers, for Wradisbury was famous for its vineries and its conservatories--meeting a few wanderers by the way, whom it was difficult to prevent from following--till at last they got to the inner sanctuary of all, where a great fantastic blossom, a flower, but counterfeiting something that was not a flower, blazed aloft in the ruddy afternoon light, which of itself could never have produced that unnatural tropical blossom. Neither the man nor the woman looked at the orchid. She said to him eagerly before he could speak: “This is all dreadful to me. You ought to let me go. You ought to be satisfied with my word. Should I speak as I have done if I had not meant it? Mr. Wradisley, for God’s sake, accept what I have already said to you and let me go.” “No,” he said. She stood beside the flower, her brown beauty shining against the long leaves and strong stem of the beautiful monster, and he planted himself in front of her as if to prevent her escape. “You think I am tyrannical,” he said; “so I am. You are shocked and startled by what I have said to you. It is because I understand that that I am so pressing, so arbitrary now. Mrs. Nugent, you can’t bear that a man should speak to you of love. You think that love only comes once, that your heart should be buried with your husband; that is folly, it is fancy, it is prejudice, it is not a real feeling. That is why I force you almost to hear me. Pause a moment, and hear me.” “Not a moment, not a moment!” she cried. “It is more than that. Take my word for it, and let me go and say no more.” “A widow,” he said, “you make up an idea to yourself that it’s something sacred. You are never to love, never to think of any one again. But all that is fiction--don’t interrupt me--it is mere fiction. You are living, and he is dead.” “You force me,” she cried, “to betray myself. You force me--to tell you my secrets. You have no right to force my secret from me. Mr. Wradisley, every word you say to me is an offense. It is my own fault; but a man ought surely to be generous and take a woman’s word without compelling her in self defense--” “I know by heart all that you can say in self-defense,” he cried, vehemently, “and you ought to be told that these are all fictions--sentimentalisms--never to be weighed against a true affection--a man’s love--and home and protection--both for yourself and your child.”