tell you all that I can tell," he said.

"I only want to know that you hate her," said Mary.

"I neither hate her nor love her. I did--love her--once. You knew
that."

"I never could understand it. I never did believe that you really could
have loved her." Then she began to sob. "I shouldn't--ever--have taken
you--if--I had."

"But from the moment when I first knew you it was all changed with me."
As he said this he put out his arms to her, and she came to him. "There
has never been a moment since in which you have not had all my heart."

"But why--why--why--," she sobbed, meaning to ask how it could have
come to pass that the wicked viper could, in those circumstances, have
written such a letter as that which had fallen into her hands.

The question certainly was not unnatural. But it was a question very
difficult to answer. No man likes to say that a woman has pestered him
with unwelcome love, and certainly Lord George was not the man to make
such a boast. "Dearest Mary," he said, "on my honour as a gentleman I
am true to you."

Then she was satisfied and turned her face to him and covered him with
kisses. I think that morning did more than any day had done since their
marriage to bring about the completion of her desire to be in love with
her husband. Her heart was so softened towards him that she would not
even press a question that would pain him. She had intended sternly to
exact from him a pledge that he would not again enter the house in
Berkeley Square, but she let even that pass by because she would not
annoy him. She gathered herself up close to him on the sofa, and
drawing his arm over her shoulder, sobbed and laughed, stroking him
with her hands as she crouched against his shoulder. But yet, every now
and then, there came forth from, her some violent ebullition against
Mrs. Houghton. "Nasty creature! wicked, wicked beast! Oh, George, she
is so ugly!" And yet before this little affair, she had been quite
content that Adelaide Houghton should be her intimate friend.

It had been nearly five when Lord George reached the house, and he had
to sit enduring his wife's caresses, and listening to devotion to
himself and her abuses of Mrs. Houghton till past six. Then it struck
him that a walk by himself would be good for him. They were to dine
out, but not till eight, and there would still be time. When he
proposed it, she acceded at once. Of course she must go and dress, and
equally of course he would not,