A moment before her soul had been charged with desperate anger and rebellion--now her face wore a soft, sad tenderness, her lifted eyes the clear glory of a suppliant angel's. "Oh, my husband," she breathed, in low, intense accents, "you have scorned all words of mine, turned away from me with my defense unheard--let the pure love of our innocent babe plead for its innocent mother!" It was like the low plaint for forgiveness from a wayward child that comes sobbing home to its mother with its small fault to confess--and she was so child-like, so very young, so very wretched. A sharp thrill of agonized pity and self-reproach made his firm lip quiver as he looked down at her, fiery love and hate struggling in his soul. A wild impulse to clasp her to his bosom--to crush against his sore heart all that pale yet glowing beauty, for one moment rushed over him, to be sharply dispelled by the memory of his jealous vow, and he answered not, but gazed on her for speechless moments, marking with eyes that had hungered weary months for a sight of her, every separate charm that distinguished this fatally fairest of women. And she was looking very lovely to-night. Her entire absence of color, while it robbed her of one charm, bestowed another. That glowing yet perfect pallor of impassioned melancholy--that dark brilliance of eyes that could, but would not weep--made her beauty more luring than before; for a sorrowful face always appeals most directly to the heart. She wore a dress he had always admired--a dinner-dress of pale, creamy-hued silk, shading, as the lustrous folds fell together, into pale wild-rose tints. A fragrant, half-blown tea-rose blossomed against her whiter throat, among frills of snowy lace, and a slender cross of pearls and diamonds depended from a slight golden chain that swung almost to her slim, girlish waist; a bandeau of rare pearls clasped on her brow with a diamond star held her golden hair in place, and gave the last touch that was wanting to make her fairly royal in her loveliness. This was _his_ wife! In all his jealous love and hatred, that name thrilled his soul like a pæan of triumph. All that beauty was his, his own; but--the undying thought thrilled him like a sword thrust--it might have been another's, had that other asked it first. That other! he had seen her clinging to his arm that day, her magical eyes uplifted to his in deep emotion. In the anger that rose at the remembrance, he forgot the passionate pride and love that had shown on him from the gallery that morning--forgot everything but that later scene; and as it rushed vividly back to his mind, he put his hand to his face and groaned aloud. And still she stood mute, moveless, with that hunted look deepening on her face, as no word or sign betrayed his answer. "You will not even answer me!" she moaned, at last.