, "I have been thinking over all that you
told me. I don't want to dwell on subjects that must be very painful to
you, but I can't help thinking about them. It's not that I won't leave
them alone, but that they won't leave me. I don't want to presume upon
your confidence, or take too much upon myself. Only, don't you see, now
that I do know it's impossible to sit down under it all and let things
go on just the same.--You're not angry with me?"

The young man spoke very carefully and calmly, yet the tones of his
voice were heavily charged with feeling.

Madame de Vallorbes clasped her hands rather tightly within her sable
muff. Unconsciously she began to sway a little, just a very little, as
a person will sway in time to strains of stirring music. An excitement,
not mental merely but physical, invaded her. For she recognised that
she stood on the threshold of developments in this very notable drama.
Still she answered quietly, with a touch even of weariness.

"Ah! dear Richard, it is so friendly and charming of you to take my
infelicities thus to heart! But to what end, to what end, I ask you?
The conditions are fixed. Escape from them is impossible. I have made
my bed--made it most abominably uncomfortably, I admit, but that is not
to the point--and I must lie on it. There is no redress. There is
nothing to be done."

"Yes, there is this," he replied. "I know it is wretchedly inadequate,
it doesn't touch the root of the matter. Oh! it's miserably
inadequate--I should think I did know that! Only it might smooth the
surface a bit, perhaps, and put a stop to one source of annoyance.
Forgive me if I say what seems coarse or clumsy--but would not your
position be easier if, in regard to--to money, you were quite
independent of that--of your husband, I mean--M. de Vallorbes?"

For a moment the young lady remained very still, and stared very hard
at the fog. The most surprising visions arose before her. She had a
difficulty in repressing an exclamation.

"Ah! there now, I have blundered. I've hurt you. I've made you angry,"
Dickie cried impulsively.

"No, no, dear Richard," she answered, with admirable gentleness, "I am
not angry. Only what is the use of romancing?"

"I am not romancing. It is the simplest thing out, if you will but have
it so."

He hesitated a little. The horses were pulling, the fog was in his
throat thick and choking--or was it, perhaps, something more
unsubstantial and intangible even than fog?