t length
of the situation she had to face, fell into a calmer mood. All was over.
Suspense and the burden of falsehood had no longer to be endured. Her
part now, for this hour at all events, was merely to stand by whilst
Fate unfolded itself.

'Please say whatever you have to say, Mr. Barmby,' she replied with
quiet civility. 'I believe your intention was good. You made me nervous,
that was all.'

'Pray forgive me. Perhaps it will be best if I ask you a simple
question. You will see that the position I hold under your father's will
leaves me no choice but to ask it. Is it true that you are married?'

'I will answer if you tell me how you came to think that I was married.'

'I have been credibly informed.'

'By whom?'

'You must forgive me. I can't tell you the name.'

'Then I can't answer your question.'

Samuel mused. He was unwilling to break a distinct promise.

'No doubt,' said Nancy, 'you have undertaken not to mention the person.'

'I have.'

'If it is some one who used to be a friend of mine, you needn't have any
scruples. She as good as told me what she meant to do. Of course it is
Miss. Morgan?'

'As you have yourself spoken the name--'

'Very well. She isn't in her senses, and I wonder she has kept the
secret so long.'

'You admit the truth of what she has told me?'

'Yes. I am married.'

She made the avowal in a tone very like that in which, to Beatrice
French, she had affirmed the contrary.

'And your true name is Mrs. Tarrant?'

'That is my name.'

The crudely masculine in Barmby prompted one more question, but some
other motive checked him. He let his eyes wander slowly about the room.
Even yet there was a chance of playing off certain effects which he had
rehearsed with gusto.

'Can you imagine,'--his voice shook a little,--'how much I suffer in
hearing you say this?'

'If you mean that you still had the hopes expressed in your letter
some time ago, I can only say, in my defence, that I gave you an honest
answer.'

'Yes. You said you could never marry me. But of course I couldn't
understand it in this sense. It is a blow. I find it very hard to bear.'

He rose and went to the window, as if ashamed of the emotion he could
not command. Nancy, too much occupied with her own troubles to ask or
care whether his distress was genuine, laid Tarrant's letter upon a
side-table, and began to draw off her gloves. Then she unbuttoned her
jacket. These out-of-door garments oppressed her.