fellow, really now," said Hawbury, "none of
that, you know. This fellow is a friend of _mine_, and one of the best
fellows I ever saw. You'd like him, old chap. He'd suit you."

"Yes, and suit my wife better," said Dacres, bitterly.

"Oh, come now, really, my dear boy, you're completely out. He don't
know your wife at all. It's the other one, you know. Don't be jealous,
now, if I tell you."

"Jealous!"

"Yes. I know your weakness, you know; but this is an old affair. I
don't want to violate confidence, but--"

Dacres looked hard at his friend and breathed heavily. He was
evidently much excited.

"But what?" he said, hoarsely.

"Well, you know, it's an old affair. It's the young one, you
know--Miss Fay. He rather affects her, you know. That's about it."

"Miss Fay?"

"Yes; your child-angel, you know. But it's an older affair than yours;
it is, really; so don't be giving way, man. Besides, his claims on her
are as great as yours; yes, greater too. By Jove!"

"Miss Fay! Oh, is that all?" said Dacres, who, with a sigh of infinite
relief, shook off all his late excitement, and became cool once more.

Hawbury noted this very thoughtfully.

"You see," said Dacres, "that terrible wife of mine is so cursedly
beautiful and fascinating, and so infernally fond of admiration, that
she keeps no end of fellows tagging at her heels. And so I didn't know
but that this was some new admirer. Oh, she's a deep one! Her new
style, which she has been cultivating for ten years, has made her look
like an angel of light. Why, there's the very light of heaven in her
eyes, and in her face there is nothing, I swear, but gentleness and
purity and peace. Oh, had she but been what she now seems! Oh, if even
now I could but believe this, I would even now fling my memories to
the winds, and I'd lie down in the dust and let her trample on me, if
she would only give me that tender and gentle love that now lurks in
her face. Good Heavens! can such a change be possible? No; it's
impossible! It can't be! Don't I know her? Can't I remember her? Is my
memory all a dream? No, it's real; and it's marked deep by this scar
that I wear. Never till that scar is obliterated can that woman
change."

Dacres had been speaking, as he often did now, half to himself; and as
he ended he rubbed his hand over the place where the scar lay, as
though to soothe the inflammation that arose from the rush of angry
blood to his head.

"Well, dear boy, I can only