ong that rang in her ears continually, as if somebody were
repeating it over and over again. She could not remember it all--only a
line here and there. "When lovely woman stoops to folly," it began, what
art can wash her tears and stains and shame away? And the answer was
what Rosalind herself had already given: the only way "to rouse his
pity" was "to die!" She almost laughed at herself for repeating the
well-worn, hackneyed, century-old ditty. People did not die now-a-days,
either of broken hearts or of chloral, when their lovers deserted them.
And Caspar Brooke had never been her lover. No, he had only given her
pain; and she wished that she could make him suffer, too. "Revenge" was
too high-flown a word; but if she could see him heartbroken, ruined,
disgraced, she would be--not satisfied, but she would feel her pain
allayed.

Caspar Brooke walked for an hour before he was calm enough to remember
that he ought to go home. When this idea once occurred to him, he felt
a pang of shame for his own forgetfulness. What would Alice think of
him? And this was the first day that she had been with him in his house
for so many years. He must go home and make his apologies. Not that she
would expect very much attention from him. Had she not said that she was
only trying to do her duty? Probably she disliked him still.

He let himself in with his latch-key, and walked straight into the
study. A shaded lamp had been lighted, and but faintly illuminated the
corners of the room. But there was light enough for him to see that Lady
Alice was sitting in his chair. He came up to the table, and looked at
her without speaking. There was a strange tumult of feeling in his
heart. He wished that he could tell her how gratified he was by her
trust in him, how much he prized the very things that had once irritated
him against her--her reserve, her fine perception, her excellent
fastidiousness of taste, even that little air of coldness that became
her so well. To come into her presence was like entering a fragrant
English garden, after stifling for an hour in a conservatory where the
air was heavy with the perfume of stephanotis.

She rose, as he continued silent, and stood on the rug, almost face to
face with him. She did not find it easy to speak, and there was
something in his air which frightened her a little. She made a trivial
remark at last, but with great difficulty.

"You have been away a long time," she said.

She was not prepare