there _is_ another man between us, I can tell him this--he
shall find it no easy matter to rob me of you!"

She started, and turned pale--but it was only for a moment. The high
spirit that was in her rose brightly in her eyes, and faced him without
shrinking.

"Threats?" she said, with quiet contempt. "When you make love, Mr.
Moody, you take strange ways of doing it. My conscience is easy. You may
try to frighten me, but you will not succeed. When you have recovered
your temper I will accept your excuses." She paused, and pointed to the
table. "There is the letter that you told me to leave for you when I
had sealed it," she went on. "I suppose you have her Ladyship's orders.
Isn't it time you began to think of obeying them?"

The contemptuous composure of her tone and manner seemed to act on Moody
with crushing effect. Without a word of answer, the unfortunate steward
took up the letter from the table. Without a word of answer, he walked
mechanically to the great door which opened on the staircase--turned on
the threshold to look at Isabel--waited a moment, pale and still--and
suddenly left the room.

That silent departure, that hopeless submission, impressed Isabel in
spite of herself. The sustaining sense of injury and insult sank, as it
were, from under her the moment she was alone. He had not been gone a
minute before she began to be sorry for him once more. The interview had
taught her nothing. She was neither old enough nor experienced enough
to understand the overwhelming revolution produced in a man's character
when he feels the passion of love for the first time in the maturity of
his life. If Moody had stolen a kiss at the first opportunity, she would
have resented the liberty he had taken with her; but she would have
thoroughly understood him. His terrible earnestness, his overpowering
agitation, his abrupt violence--all these evidences of a passion that
was a mystery to himself--simply puzzled her. "I'm sure I didn't wish to
hurt his feelings" (such was the form that her reflections took, in her
present penitent frame of mind); "but why did he provoke me? It is a
shame to tell me that I love some other man--when there is no other man.
I declare I begin to hate the men, if they are all like Mr. Moody. I
wonder whether he will forgive me when he sees me again? I'm sure I'm
willing to forget and forgive on my side--especially if he won't insist
on my being fond of him because he is fond of me. Oh, dear! I wi