'Yes, I was wrong; I'm sorry; things have turned out different. Who's that?' said Lake, grasping her wrist. 'Who--where--Mark Wylder?' 'No; it's nothing, I believe.' 'Where is he? Where have you left him?' 'Up there, at the pathway, near the stone steps.' 'Waiting there?' 'Well, yes; and I don't think I'll go back, Radie.' 'You _shall_ go back, Sir, and carry my message; or, no, I could not trust you. I'll go with you and see him, and disabuse him. How could you--how _could_ you, Stanley?' 'It was a mistake, altogether; I'm sorry, but I could not tell there was such a devil on the earth.' 'Yes, I told you so. _He_ has frightened _you_' said Rachel. 'He _has_, _maybe_. At any rate, I was a fool, and I think I'm ruined; and I'm afraid, Rachel, you'll be inconvenienced too.' 'Yes, you have made him savage and brutal; and between you, I shall be called in question, you wretched fool!' Stanley was taking these hard terms very meekly for a savage young coxcomb like him. Perhaps they bore no very distinct meaning just then to his mind. Perhaps it was preoccupied with more exciting ideas; or, it may be, his agitation and fear cried 'amen' to the reproach; at all events, he only said, in a pettish but deprecatory sort of way-- 'Well, where's the good of scolding? how can I help it now?' 'What's your quarrel? why does he wait for you there? why has he sent you here? It must concern _me_, Sir, and I insist on hearing it all.' 'So you shall, Radie; only have patience just a minute--and give me a little wine or water--anything.' 'There is the key. There's some wine in the press, I think.' He tried to open it, but his hand shook. He saw his sister look at him, and he flung the keys on the table rather savagely, with, I dare say, a curse between his teeth. There was running all this time in Rachel's mind, and had been almost since the first menacing mention of Wylder's name by her brother, an indistinct remembrance of something unpleasant or horrible. It may have been mere fancy, or it may have referred to something long ago imperfectly heard. It was a spectre of mist, that evaporated before she could fix her eyes on it, but was always near her elbow. Rachel took the key with a faint gleam of scorn on her face and brought out the wine in silence. He took a tall-stemmed Venetian glass that stood upon the cabinet, an antique decoration, and filled it with sherry--a strange revival of old service! How long was it since lips had touched its brim before, and whose? Lovers', maybe, and how. How long since that cold crystal had glowed with the ripples of wine? This, at all events, was its last service. It is an old legend of the Venetian glass--its shivering at touch of poison; and there are those of whom it is said, 'the poison of asps is under their lips.' 'What's that?' ejaculated Rachel, with a sudden shriek--that whispered shriek, so expressive and ghastly, that you, perhaps, have once heard in your life--and her very lips grew white.