tinued. "He is mine; I
shall never give him up. It is useless for you or any one else to love
him. I know what love is now. Stop while you can. I can be sorry for you,
but I will not let him go from me. He is my lover."

Emilia closed her lips abruptly. She produced more effect than was
visible. Lady Charlotte drew out a letter, saying, "Perhaps this will
satisfy you."

"Nothing!" cried Emilia, jumping to her feet.

"Read it--read it; and, for heaven's sake, ma fille sauvage, don't think
I'm here to fight for the man! He is not Orpheus; and our modern
education teaches us that it's we who are to be run after. Will you read
it?"

"No."

"Will you read it to please me?"

Emilia changed from a look of quiet opposition to gentleness of feature.
"Why will it please you if I read that he has flattered you? I never lie
about what I feel; I think men do." Her voice sank.

"You won't allow yourself to imagine, then, that he has spoken false to
you?"

"Tell me," retorted Emilia, "are you sure in your heart--as sure as it
beats each time--that he loves you? You are not."

"It seems that we are dignifying my gentleman remarkably," said Lady
Charlotte. "When two women fight for a man, that is almost a meal for his
vanity. Now, listen. I am not, as they phrase it, in love. I am an
experienced person--what is called a woman of the world. I should not
make a marriage unless I had come to the conclusion that I could help my
husband, or he me. Do me the favour to read this letter."

Emilia took it and opened it slowly. It was a letter in the tone of the
gallant paying homage with some fervour. Emilia searched every sentence
for the one word. That being absent, she handed back the letter, her eyes
lingering on the signature.

"Do you see what he says?" asked Lady Charlotte; "that I can be a right
hand to him, as I believe I can."

"He writes like a friend." Emilia uttered this as when we have a contrast
in the mind.

"You excuse him for writing to me in that style?"

"Yes; he may write to any woman like that."

"He has latitude! You really fancy that's the sort of letter a friend
would write?"

"That is how Mr. Powys would write to me," said Emilia. Lady Charlotte
laughed. "My unhappy Merthyr!"

"Only if I could be a great deal older," Emilia hastened to add; and Lady
Charlotte slightly frowned, but rubbed it out with a smile.

Rising, the lady said: "I have spoken to you upon equal terms; and
remember, very few w