"Release him! What do you mean, Lady Valeria? This is sheer madness. Mr. Grahame sought me of his own accord--chose me deliberately for his wife, in the face of great difficulties. We are both completely happy in our love for each other--our faith in each other. There never was a fairer prospect of a happy domestic life than that which smiles upon us. There is not a cloud, or the shadow of a cloud, between us." A footman brought in a little bamboo table, and arranged the old-fashioned silver tea-tray; and during this brief interruption hostilities were suspended, and both women composed their faces to placid neutrality. Lady Valeria declined Hilda's cup of tea, proffered with a tremulous hand; and directly the man had gone, she coldly pursued her interrogation. "Answer me one question, Miss Heathcote. Do you believe yourself Mr. Grahame's first love?" "No," faltered Hilda. "I know that there was some one else--that there was an entanglement from which Mr. Grahame released himself, honourably and completely, before I accepted him as my future husband. I made that condition when first he asked me to be his wife. I waited until he could give me his assurance upon this point before I consented to marry him." "O, then you did know that there was some one?" exclaimed Lady Valeria, with crushing scorn. "You did know that there was an entanglement--or, in plain words, you knew that you were stealing another woman's lover." "Lady Valeria, you have no right to say such a thing." "I have every right. Yes, you knew well enough what you were doing, in spite of your provincial bringing up. Every woman is wise in these matters. An entanglement, you say. Do you know, girl, that this entanglement, of which you speak so flippantly, was a passionate all-absorbing love--a love that had lasted three years, that had braved all consequences, that had laughed at danger--a love that burns in every line of these letters? Read them; read them, girl, and see what your 'entanglement' means." She had opened her reticule, and had taken out a packet of letters while she was speaking. She flung the packet on to a table near Hilda. "Read them, Miss Heathcote. I suppose you know Mr. Grahame's handwriting. I suppose he has written to you." "I can see that they are in Bothwell's hand," said Hilda, looking down at the bundle of letters, as if they had been a nest of scorpions; "but I decline to read letters that are not addressed to me." "You are afraid to read them?" "I will take it upon trust that they are love-letters. May I ask if they were written to you--General Harborough's wife?"