d, "He is not; he made an
advantageous marriage."

He uttered this remark with a voice full of meaning, and ended with a
sigh.

"Oh, so he has a wife."

"Dead, Miss Bartlett, dead. I wonder--yes I wonder how he has the
effrontery to look me in the face, to dare to claim acquaintance with
me. He was in my London parish long ago. The other day in Santa Croce,
when he was with Miss Honeychurch, I snubbed him. Let him beware that he
does not get more than a snub."

"What?" cried Lucy, flushing.

"Exposure!" hissed Mr. Eager.

He tried to change the subject; but in scoring a dramatic point he had
interested his audience more than he had intended. Miss Bartlett was
full of very natural curiosity. Lucy, though she wished never to see the
Emersons again, was not disposed to condemn them on a single word.

"Do you mean," she asked, "that he is an irreligious man? We know that
already."

"Lucy, dear--" said Miss Bartlett, gently reproving her cousin's
penetration.

"I should be astonished if you knew all. The boy--an innocent child at
the time--I will exclude. God knows what his education and his inherited
qualities may have made him."

"Perhaps," said Miss Bartlett, "it is something that we had better not
hear."

"To speak plainly," said Mr. Eager, "it is. I will say no more." For the
first time Lucy's rebellious thoughts swept out in words--for the first
time in her life.

"You have said very little."

"It was my intention to say very little," was his frigid reply.

He gazed indignantly at the girl, who met him with equal indignation.
She turned towards him from the shop counter; her breast heaved quickly.
He observed her brow, and the sudden strength of her lips. It was
intolerable that she should disbelieve him.

"Murder, if you want to know," he cried angrily. "That man murdered his
wife!"

"How?" she retorted.

"To all intents and purposes he murdered her. That day in Santa
Croce--did they say anything against me?"

"Not a word, Mr. Eager--not a single word."

"Oh, I thought they had been libelling me to you. But I suppose it is
only their personal charms that makes you defend them."

"I'm not defending them," said Lucy, losing her courage, and relapsing
into the old chaotic methods. "They're nothing to me."

"How could you think she was defending them?" said Miss Bartlett, much
discomfited by the unpleasant scene. The shopman was possibly listening.

"She will find it difficult. For that man