well, even if this were so, I should never blame
him--no--not once!"

"Not blame him?" cried Lady Winsleigh impatiently. "Not blame him for
infidelity?"

A deep blush swept over her face at the hated word "infidelity," but she
answered steadily--

"No. Because, you see, it would be my fault, not his. When you hold a
flower in your hand for a long time, till all its fragrance has gone,
and you drop it because it no longer smells sweetly--you are not to
blame--it is natural you should wish to have something fresh and
fragrant,--it is the flower's fault because it could not keep its scent
long enough to please you. Now, if Philip were to love me no longer, I
should be like that flower, and how would HE be to blame? He would be
good as ever, but I--I should have ceased to seem pleasant to him--that
is all!"

She put this strange view of the case quite calmly, as if it were the
only solution to the question. Lady Winsleigh heard her, half in
contemptuous amusement, half in dismay. "What can I do with such a woman
as this," she thought. "And fancy Lennie imagining for a moment that HE
could have any power over her!" Aloud, she said--

"Thelma, you're the oddest creature going--a regular heathen child from
Norway! You've set up your husband as an idol, and you're always on your
knees before him. It's awfully sweet of you, but it's quite absurd, all
the same. Angelic wives always get the worst of it, and so you'll see!
Haven't you heard that?"

"Yes, I have heard it," she answered, smiling a little. "But only since
I came to London. In Norway, it is taught to women that to be patient
and obedient is best for every one. It is not so here. But I am not an
angelic wife, Clara, and so the 'worst of it' will not apply to me.
Indeed, I do not know of any 'worst' that I would not bear for Philip's
sake."

Lady Winsleigh studied the lovely face, eloquent with love and truth,
for some moments in silence;--a kind of compunction pricked her
conscience. Why destroy all that beautiful faith? Why wound that grandly
trusting nature? The feeling was but momentary.

"Philip _does_ run after the Vere," she said to herself--"it's true,
there's no mistake about it, and she ought to know of it. But she won't
believe without proofs--what proofs can I get, I wonder?" And her
scheming brain set to work to solve this problem.

In justice to her, it must be admitted, she had a good deal of seeming
truth on her side. Sir Philip's name _had_