e your ears," says
he, with a curl of his lip. "Pray be reassured. What I only wish to say
is that if you condemn me for a few past sins you should condemn also
half your acquaintances. That, however, you do not do. For me alone, for
your husband, you reserve all your resentment."

"What are the others to me?"

"What am I to you, for the matter of that?" with a bitter laugh, "if
they are nothing I am less than nothing. You deliberately flung me aside
all because----Why, look here!" moving toward her in uncontrollable
agitation, "say I had sinned above the Galileans--say that lie was
true--say I had out-Heroded Herod in evil courses, still am I past the
pale of forgiveness? Saint as you are, have you no pity for me? In
all your histories of love and peace and perfection is there never
a case of a poor devil of a sinner like me being taken back into
grace--absolved--pardoned?"

"To rave like this is useless. There is no good to be got from it. You
know what I think, what I believe. You deceived--wronged----Let me go,
Cecil!"

"Before--before," repeats he, obstinately. "What that woman told you
since, I swear to you, was a most damned lie."

"I refuse to go into it again."

She is deadly pale now. Her bloodless lips almost refuse to let the
words go through them.

"You mean by that, that in spite of my oath you still cling to your
belief that I am lying to you?"

His face is livid. There is something almost dangerous about it, but
Lady Baltimore has come of too old and good a race to be frightened into
submission. Raising one small, slender hand, she lays it upon his
breast, and, with a little haughty upturning of her shapely head, pushes
him from her.

"I have told you I refuse to go into it," says she, with superb
self-control. "How long do you intend to keep me here? When may I be
allowed to leave the room?"

There is distinct defiance in the clear glance she casts at him.

Baltimore draws a long breath, and then bursts into a strange laugh.

"Why, when you will," says he, shrugging his shoulders. He makes a
graceful motion of his hand toward the door. "Shall I open it for you?
But a word still let me say--if you are not in too great a hurry!
Christianity, now, my fair saint, so far as ever I could hear or read,
has been made up of mercy. Now, you are merciless! Would you mind
letting me know how you reconcile one----"

"You perversely mistake me--I am no saint. I do not"--coldly--"profess
to be one. I