"Mr. Tremenhere!" Lady Dora cried, rising hastily in reply to his question, and standing pale, erect, but trembling; "I would ask you,—I—I am in a position of much suffering." She clasped her hands together as if to still her nervous pain. "I would ask you," she uttered, "whether your memory is perfect?"
"In all things, Lady Dora," was the calm reply.
"Do you remember when first we met in Florence?"
"Well—well. I was then a man, comparatively speaking, full of hope; now——"
"And you loved then. You (better said) loved me, and I treated your half-avowed affection with scorn; that was pride!" She spoke in hurried confusion.
"True—most true!" he uttered.
"You quitted, believing me a cold, heartless flirt. You met, and married my cousin; was this love, or—pique?"
"I cannot answer, lady, till I know why you ask."
"Since her death" (the words fell in cold awe from her lips) "we have met often, and on each occasion words of implied tenderness fell from your tongue."
Neither heard the almost groan from the sinking woman, leaning against the half-closed door to the bedroom.