be, he did not know. But he discerned in
her an ally and a powerful one.

"Yes," he said impulsively, "you are right. It is a martyrdom and a
scandalous one. It's worse than murder, it's sacrilege. It's not like
any ordinary marriage. I don't want to be brutal, but it isn't. There's
something repulsive in it, something unnatural."

The young man looked at Honoria, and read in her expression a certain
agreement and encouragement.

"You know it, Shotover--you know it just as well as I do. And that
justified me in attempting what I suppose I would not otherwise have
felt it honourable to attempt.--Look here, Shotover, I will tell you
what has just happened. I would have had to tell you to-morrow, in any
case, if we had carried the plan out. But I suppose I have no
alternative but to tell you now, since you've come."

He ranged himself in line with Miss St. Quentin, his back against one
of the big stone vases. He struggled honestly to keep both temper and
emotion under control, but a rather volcanic energy was perceptible in
him.

"I love Lady Constance," he said. "I have told her so, and--and she
cares for me. I am not a Croesus like Calmady. But I am not a pauper.
I have enough to keep a wife in a manner suitable to her position, and
my own. When my Uncle Ulick Decies dies--which I hope he'll not hurry
to do, since I am very fond of him--there'll be the Somersetshire
property in addition to my own dear, old place in County Cork. And your
sister simply hates this marriage----"

"Lord bless me, my dear fellow, so do I!" Lord Shotover put in with
evident sincerity.

"And so, when at last I had spoken freely, I asked her to----"

But the young girl cowered down, hiding her face in Honoria St.
Quentin's bosom.

"Oh! don't say it again--don't say it," she implored. "It was wicked of
me to listen to you even for a minute. I ought to have stopped you at
once and sent you away. It was very wrong of me to listen, and talk to
you, and tell you all that I did. But everything is so strange, and I
have been so miserable. I never supposed anybody could ever be so
miserable. And I knew it was ungrateful of me, and so I dared not tell
anybody. I would have told papa, but Louisa never let me be alone with
him. She said papa indulged me, and made me selfish and fanciful, and
so I have never seen him for more than a little while. And I have been
so frightened."--She raised her head, gazing wide-eyed first at Miss
St. Quentin and