she used to
be long ago. In those days she had no secrets,--at least, none from him;
now she had long dreary intervals of silence and reflection, as though
brooding over something she did not wish to tell of. This was not the
Dolly Stewart he used to know so well. As he re-read the letter, and
came to that passage in which she tells him that if he cannot explain
what Dolly's refusal is owing to without making a confession, he need
not do so, he grew almost irritable, and said, "What can she mean by
this?" Surely it is not possible that Alice could have listened to any
story that coupled his name with Dolly's, and should thus by insinuation
charge him with the allegation? Lady Lyle had said to himself, "I heard
the story from one of the girls." Was it this, then, that Alice referred
to? Surely she knew him better; surely she knew how he loved her, no
matter how hopelessly it might be. Perhaps women liked to give this sort
of pain to those whose heart they owned. Perhaps it was a species of
torture they were given to. Skeffy could tell if he were here. Skeffy
could resolve this point at once, but it was too much for _him_.

As to the passage about Maitland, he almost tore the paper as he read
it. By what right did he correspond with her at all? Why should he write
to her even such small matter as the gossip of a court? And what could
Alice mean by telling him of it, unless--and oh, the bitterness of this
thought!--it was to intimate by a mere passing word the relations that
subsisted between herself and Maitland, and thus convey to him the utter
hopelessness of his own pretensions?

As Tony walked up and down his room, he devised a very strong, it was
almost a fierce, reply to this letter. He would tell her that as to
Dolly he could not say, but she might have some of his own scruples
about that same position called companion. When he knew her long ago,
she was independent enough in spirit, and it was by no means impossible
she might prefer a less brilliant condition if unclogged with
observances that might savor of homage. At all events, _he_ was no fine
and subtle intelligence to whom a case of difficulty could be submitted.

As for Maitland, he hated him! he was not going to conceal it in any
way. His air of insolent superiority he had not forgotten, nor would he
forget till he had found an opportunity to retort it. Alice might think
him as amusing as she pleased. To himself the man was simply odious, and
if the resu