emind you of one thing. What took place between me and her
ladyship was, of course, much more particular; but it all began with
your lordship. If you hadn't commissioned me I don't suppose her
ladyship would ever have spoken to me about Lady Frances."

"What is it all? Sit down;--won't you?--and tell it all like a man
if you have got anything to tell." The Marquis, fatigued with his
exertion, was forced to go back to his chair. Mr. Greenwood also sat
down,--but whether or no like a man may be doubted. "Remember this,
Mr. Greenwood, it does not become a gentleman to repeat what has been
said to him in confidence,--especially not to repeat it to him or to
them from whom it was intended to be kept secret. And it does not
become a Christian to endeavour to make ill-blood between a husband
and his wife. Now, if you have got anything to say, say it." Mr.
Greenwood shook his head. "If you have got nothing to say, go away.
I tell you fairly that I don't want to have you here. You have begun
something like a threat, and if you choose to go on with it, you may.
I am not afraid to hear you, but you must say it or go."

Mr. Greenwood again shook his head. "I suppose you won't deny that
her ladyship honoured me with a very close confidence."

"I don't know anything about it."

"Your lordship didn't know that her ladyship down at Trafford used
to be talking to me pretty freely about Lord Hampstead and Lady
Frances?"

"If you have got anything to say, say it," screamed the Marquis.

"Of course his lordship and her ladyship are not her ladyship's own
children."

"What has that got to do with it?"

"Of course there was a bitterness."

"What is that to you? I will hear nothing from you about Lady
Kingsbury, unless you have to tell me of some claim to be made upon
her. If there has been money promised you, and she acknowledges it,
it shall be paid. Has there been any such promise?"

Mr. Greenwood found it very difficult,--nay, quite impossible,--to
say in accurate language that which he was desirous of explaining
by dark hints. There had, he thought, been something of a compact
between himself and the Marchioness. The Marchioness had desired
something which she ought not to have desired, and had called upon
the Chaplain for more than his sympathy. The Chaplain had been
willing to give her more than his sympathy,--had at one time been
almost willing to give her very much more. He might possibly, as he
now felt, have misinterpr