,--at least
until time has convinced you of your folly. You are an old friend,
Talbot, and I would willingly try and forget all that has happened
to-day, or at all events to remember it only as a passing madness."

"Am I a boy, a fool, that you speak to me like this?" cries he,
catching her hand to detain her as she moves away. "And why do you talk
of 'insult'? I only urge you to exchange indifference for love,--the
indifference of a husband who cares no more for you than for the gravel
at your feet."

"And pray, sir, by what rule do you measure the amount of my regard for
Lady Stafford?" exclaims Sir Penthony, walking through an open space in
the privet hedge that skirts this corner of the garden, where he has
been spell-bound for the last two minutes. A short time, no doubt,
though a great deal can be said in it.

He is positively livid, and has his eyes fixed, not on his enemy, but
on his wife.

Lowry changes color, but gives way not an inch; he also tightens his
grasp on Cecil's unwilling hand, and throws up his head defiantly.

"Let my wife's hand go directly," says Stafford, in a low but furious
tone, advancing.

By a quick movement Cecil wrenches herself free and gets between the
two men. She does not fling herself, she simply gets there, almost--as
it seems--without moving.

"Not another word, Sir Penthony," she says, quietly. "I forbid it. I
will have no scene. Mr. Lowry has behaved foolishly, but I desire that
nothing more be said about it. Go,"--turning to Lowry, who is frowning
ominously, and pointing imperiously to a distant gate,--"and do as I
asked you a few moments since,--leave Herst without delay."

So strong is her determination to avoid an _esclandre_, and so
masterly is her manner of carrying out her will, that both men
instinctively obey her. Sir Penthony lowers his eyes and shifts his
aggressive position; Lowry, with bent head, and without another word,
walks away from her down the garden-path out of the gate, and
disappears--for years.

When he has quite gone, Sir Penthony turns to her.

"Is this the way you amuse yourself?" he asks, in a compressed voice.

"Do not reproach me," murmurs she, hurriedly; "I could not bear it
now." She speaks clearly, but her tone has lost its firmness, because
of the little tremor that runs through it, while her face is white as
one of the pale blossoms she holds within her hand. "Besides, it is not
deserved. Were you long here before you spoke?"

"