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words imply that you have a vile opinion of Mrs. Hoskyn and of me.”

      “Oh, no, no,” she said, carelessly reassuring him. “I not think that you arc a wicked gallant, like Don Juan. I know you would both think that a great English sin. I suspect you of nothing except what I saw in your face when you had her hands clasped in yours. You could not look at me so.”

      “What do you mean?” said he, indignantly.

      “I will shew you,” she replied calmly, rising and approaching him. “Give me your hands.”

      “Aurélie: this is chil—”

      “Both your hands. Give them to me.”

      She took them as she spoke, he looking foolish meanwhile.

      “Now, she aid. taking a step back so that they were nearly at arms length. “behold what I mean. Look into my eyes as you looked at hers, if you can.” She waited; but his face expressed nothing bn1 confusion. “You cannot,” she added, attempting to loose his hands. But he grasped her tightly, drew her towards him, and kissed her. “Ah,” she said, disengaging herself quietly, “I did not see that part of it. I was only at the door for a moment before I spoke.”

      “Nonsense, Aurélie‚ I do not mean that I kissed Mrs. Hoskyn.”

      “Then you should have. When a woman gives you both her hands, that is what she expects.”

      “But I pledge you my word that you are mistaken. We were simply shaking hands on a bargain: the commonnest thing possible in England.”

      “A bargain?”

      “An agreement — a species of arrangement between us.”

      “Eh bien! And what was this agreement that called such a light into your eyes?”

      Adrian, about to reply confidently, hesitated when he realized the impression which his words would probably convey. “It is rather difficult to explain,” he began.

      “Then do not explain it; for it is very easy to understand. I know. I know. My poor Adrian: you are in love without knowing it. Ah! I envy Mrs Hoskyn.”

      “If you really mean that,” he said eagerly, “I will forgive you all the rest.”

      “I envy her the power to be in love,” rejoined Aurélie, sitting down again, and speaking meditatively. “I cannot love. I can feel it in the music — in the romance — in the poetry; but in real life — it is impossible. I am fond of mamman, fond of the bambino, fond of you sometimes; but this is not love — not such love as you used to feel for me — as she feels now for you. I see people and things too clearly to love. Ah well! I must content myself with the music. It is but a shadow. Perhaps it is as real as love is, after all.”

      “In short, Aurélie, you do not love me, and never have loved me.”

      “Not in your way.”

      “Why did you not tell me this before?”

      “Because, whilst you loved me, it would have wounded you.”

      “I love you still; and you know it. Why did you not tell me so before we were married?”

      “Ah, I had forgotten that. I must have loved you then. But you were only half real: I did not know you. What is the matter with you?”

      “You ask me what is the matter, after — after—”

      “Come and sit by me, and be tranquil. You are making grimaces like a comedian. I do more for you than you deserve; for I still cherish you as my husband, whilst you make bargains, as you call it, with other women.”

      “Aurélie,” he said, sternly: “there is one course, and only one, left to us. We must separate.”

      “Separate! And for why?”

      “Because you do not love me. I suspected it before: now I know it. Your respect for me has vanished too. I can at least set you free: I owe that much to myself. You may not see the necessity for this; and I cannot make you see it. None the less, we must separate.”

      “And what shall I do for a husband? Do you forget your duty to me and to my child? Well, it does not matter. Go. But look you, Adrian, if you abandon your home only to draw that woman away from hers, it will be an infamy — one that will estrange me from you forever. Do not hope, when you tire of her — for one tires of all pronounced people, and she, in face and character, is very pronounced — do not hope to console yourself with me. You may be weak and foolish if you will; but when you cease to be a man of honor, you are no longer my Adrian.”

      “And how, in heaven’s name, shall I be the worse for that, since already I am no longer your Adrian? You have told me that vou never cared for me—”

      “Chut! I tell thee that I am not of a nature to fall in love. Becalm ; and do not talk of separation, and such silly things. Have I not been good to her and to you this day?”

      “Upon my soul,” cried Adrian despairingly, “I believe you are either mad or anxious to make me mad.”

      “He is swearing!” she ejaculated, lifting her hands.

      “I am not in love with Mary,” he continued. “It is a gross and absurd libel on both of us to say so. If anyone be to blame, you are — yes, you, Aurélie. You have put the vilest construction on a perfectly innocent action of mine; and now you tell me with the most cynical coolness that you do not care for me.

      Aurélie, implying by a little shrug that she gave him up, rose and went to the piano. The moment her fingers touched the keys, she seemed to forget him. But she stopped presently, and said with grave surprise, “What did you say, Adrian?”

      “Nothing,” he replied shortly.

      “Nothing!” she repeated incredulously.

      “Nothing that was intended for your ears. Since you overheard me, I beg your pardon. I do not often offend you with such language; but tonight I do say with all my soul, ‘Damn that pianoforte.’”

      “Without doubt you have often said so before under your breath,” said Aurélie, closing the instrument quietly.

      “Are you going?” he said anxiously, as she moved toward the door. “No,” he exclaimed, springing forward, and timidly putting his arm about her, “I did not mean that I disliked your playing. I only hate the piano when you make me jealous of it — when you go to it to forget me.”

      “It does not matter. Be tranquil. I am not offended,” she said coldly, trying to disengage herself.

      “You are indeed, Aurélie. Pray do not be so quick to—”

      “Adrian: you are worrying me — you will make me cry; and then I will never forgive you. Let me go.”

      At the threat of crying he released her, and stood looking piteously at her.

      “You should nut make scenes with me,” she said plaintively. “Where is my handkerchief? I had it a moment ago.”

      “Here it is, my darling.” he said humbly, picking it from the floor where it had fallen. She took it without thanking him. Then, glancing petulantly at him, and seeing him dejected and wistful, she relented and stretched out her arms for a caress.

      “Mon âme,” she whispered, as she rested her face against his.

      “Ma vie,” he said fervently, and clasped her with a shudder of delight to his breast.

      CHAPTER IV

       Table of Contents

      Early in the afternoon of the following day, which was Sunday, Charlie Sutherland presented himself at Church Street, Kensington and asked Mrs Simpson, who opened the door, if Mr Jack was within.

      “No,

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