he came up to Earlscourt with a
smile, and was about to put her hand through his arm, but he signed her
away from him.

"Your acting is quite useless with me. I am not to be blinded by it
again. I have believed in your truth as in my own--"

"So you may still. Listen to me, Ernest!"

"Hush! Do not add falsehood to falsehood."

He spoke sternly and coldly; his pride, which was as strong as his love
for her, would not gratify her by a sign of the torture within him, and
even in his bitterest anger Earlscourt would never have been ungentle to
a woman. That word acted like an incantation on her, the blood crimsoned
her temples, her eyes literally flashed fire, and she threw back her
head with the haughty, impatient gesture habitual to her.

"Falsehood? Three times of late you have used that word to me."

"And why? Because you merited it."

She stood before him, the indignant flush hotter still upon her cheeks,
her lips curved into scornful anger. If she was an actress, she knew her
role to perfection.

"Do you speak that seriously, Lord Earlscourt? Do you believe that I
have lied to you?"

"God help me! What else can I believe?" he muttered, too low for her to
hear it.

She asked him the question again, fiercely, and he answered her briefly
and sternly,--

"I believe that all your life with me has been a lie. I trusted you
implicitly, and how do you return it? By carrying on clandestine
intercourse with another man, giving him interviews that you conceal
from me, having letters that you destroy, doubtless receiving caresses
that you take care are unwitnessed; while you dare to smile in my face,
and to dupe me with child-like tenderness, and to bid me 'trust' you and
believe in you! Love shared to me is worthless, and on my wife,
Beatrice, no stain must rest!"

As he spoke, a dark shadow spread over her countenance, her evil spirit
rose up in her, and her bright, frank, fearless face grew almost as
hard and cold as his, while her teeth were set together, till her lips,
usually soft and laughing, were pressed into one straight haughty line.

"Since you give me up so easily, far be it from me to dispute your will.
We part from this hour, if you desire it. My honor is as dear to me as
yours to you, and to those who dare to suspect it I never stoop to
defend it!"

"But, my God! Beatrice, what _am_ I to believe?"

"Whatever you please!"

"What I please! Child, you must be mad. What _can_ I believe, but that