, of course," said Lady Winsleigh
coldly. "But you draw rather foolish comparisons, Thelma. There is a
wide difference between Mary Anderson and Violet Vere. Besides, Mr.
Lovelace is a bachelor,--he can do as he likes and go where he likes
without exciting comment. However, whether you are angry with me or not,
I feel I should not be your true friend if I did not show you--_this_.
You know your husband's writing!"

And she drew out the fatal letter, and continued, watching her victim as
she spoke, "This was sent by Sir Philip to Violet Vere last night,--she
gave it to me herself this morning."

Thelma's hand trembled as she took the paper.

"Why should I read it?" she faltered mechanically.

Lady Winsleigh raised her eyebrows and frowned impatiently.

"Why--why? Because it is your duty to do so! Have you no pride? Will you
allow your husband to write such a letter as that to another woman,--and
_such_ a woman too! without one word of remonstrance? You owe it to
yourself--to your own sense of honor--to resent and resist such
treatment on his part! Surely the deepest love cannot pardon deliberate
injury and insult."

"My love can pardon anything," answered the girl in a low voice, and
then slowly, very slowly, she opened the folded sheet--slowly she read
every word it contained,--words that stamped themselves one by one on
her bewildered brain and sent it reeling into darkness and vacancy. She
felt sick and cold--she stared fixedly at her husband's familiar
handwriting. "A man who has loved and who loves you still, and who
without you is utterly weary and broken-hearted!"

Thus he wrote of himself to--to Violet Vere! It seemed incredible--yet
it was true! She heard a rushing sound in her ears--the room swung round
dizzily before her eyes--yet she sat, still, calm and cold, holding the
letter and speaking no word.

Lady Winsleigh watched her, irritated at her passionless demeanor.

"Well!" she exclaimed at last. "Have you nothing to say?"

Thelma looked up, her eyes burning with an intense feverish light.

"Nothing!" she replied.

"_Nothing_?" repeated her ladyship with emphatic astonishment.

"Nothing against Philip," continued the girl steadily. "For the blame is
not his, but mine! That he is weary and broken-hearted must be my
fault--though I cannot yet understand what I have done. But it must be
something, because if I were all that he wished he would not have grown
so tired." She paused and her pale lip