"Lady Chetwynde," he began, "all that you have just said I have thought over long ago, from beginning to end. It has all been in my mind for years. In India there were always hours when the day's duties were over, and the mind would turn to its own private and secret thoughts. From the very first, you, Lady Chetwynde, were naturally the subject of those thoughts to a great degree. That marriage scene was too memorable to be soon forgotten, and the revelation of your character, which I then had, was the first thing which showed me the full weight of the obligation which I had so thoughtlessly accepted. Most bitterly I lamented, on my voyage out, that I had not contrived some plan to evade so hasty a fulfillment of my boyish promise, and that I had not satisfied the General in some way which would not have involved such a scene. But I could not recall the past, and I felt bound by my father's engagement. As to yourself, I assure you that in spite of your malice and your insults I felt most considerately toward you. I pitied you for being, like myself, the unwilling victim of a father's promise and of a sick man's whim, and learned to make allowance for every word and action of yours at that time. Not one of those words or actions had the smallest effect in imbittering my mind toward you. Not one of those words which you have just uttered has suggested an idea which I have not long ago considered, and pondered over in secret, in silence, and in sorrow. I made a large allowance also for that hate which you must have felt toward one who came to you as I did, in so odious a character, to violate, as I did, the sanctities of death by the mockery of a hideous marriage. All this--all this has been in my mind, and nothing that you can say is able in any way to bring any new idea to me. There are other things far deeper and far more lasting than this, which can not be answered, or excused, or explained away--the long persistent expressions of unchanging hate." Lord Chetwynde was silent. Hilda had heard all this without moving or raising her head. Every word was ruin to her hopes. But she still hoped against hope, and now, since she had an opportunity to speak, she still tried to move this obdurate heart. "Hate!" she exclaimed, catching at his last word--"hate! what is that? the fitful, spitefull feeling arising out of the recollection of one miserable scene--or perhaps out of the madness of anger at a forced marriage. What is it? One kind word can dispel it." As she said this she did not look up. Her face was buried in her hands. Her tone was half despairing, half imploring, and broken by emotion. "True," said Lord Chetwynde. "All that I have thought of, and I used to console myself with that. I used to say to myself, 'When we meet again it will be different. When she knows me she can not hate me.'"