Long enough." With a world of meaning in his tone.

"Then you heard my exculpation. 'Cold as ice,' he called me. And he was
right. As I am to you, Sir Penthony, so am I to all men. No one yet has
touched my heart."

"For myself I can answer," replies he, bitterly; "but for the
others----"

"Not another word," she breaks in, vehemently. "Do not say--do not even
hint at--what I might find it impossible to forgive. Not even to you
will I seek to justify myself on such a point. And you," she says,
tears of agitation arising from all she has undergone, mingled with
much pent-up wounded feeling, coming thickly into her eyes, "you should
be the last to blame me for what has happened, when you remember who it
was placed me in such a false position as makes men think they may say
to me what they choose."

"You are unjust," he answers, nearly as white as herself. "I only
followed out your wishes. It was your own arrangement; I but acceded to
it."

"You should not have done so," cries she, with subdued excitement. "You
were a man of the world, capable of judging; I was a foolish girl,
ignorant of the consequences that must follow on such an act. Our
marriage was a wretched mistake."

"Cecil, you know you can escape from your false position as soon as you
choose. No one loves you as I do."

"Impossible." Coldly. "In this world a thing once done can never be
undone. Have you lived so long without learning that lesson?"

As she speaks she turns from him, and, walking quickly away, leaves him
alone in the garden. Much as he has grown to love her, never until now
has the very tenderness of affection touched him,--now, when the
laughter-loving Cecil has changed for him into the feeling, accusing
woman; although a woman dead to him, with a heart locked carefully,
lest he should enter it.

How can he tell, as she goes so proudly along the garden-path, that her
bosom is heaving with shame and unconfessed longing, and that down her
cheeks--so prone to dimple with joyous laughter--the bitter tears are
falling?

Almost as she reaches the house she encounters Tedcastle, and turns
hastily aside, lest he should mark the traces of her recent weeping.
But so bent is he on his own dismal thoughts that he heeds her not, but
follows aimlessly the path before him that leads to the balcony from,
which the smaller drawing-room may be reached.

He is depressed and anxious, the night's vigil having induced him to
believe himself somewhat ha