Lady Wyndover drew a breath of fear.
—“Yes; but that was long ago. When I came back to England she was going to be married to Trafford. I loved her then still, but I stamped it out. Why, great Heaven! you might well call me a scoundrel if you thought me capable of robbing Trafford—Trafford!—of his wife! And he thinks it!”
“But—but the kiss—”
“Yes, I kissed her; all the world may know it, for there is no shame in it for her or me. The kiss was meant for—for some one else.” He faltered. “Lady Wyndover, I want Lilias to be my wife. Esmeralda knows it, and promised to help me; and in my gratitude, yes, and my love for her—for I still love her, though not as I love Lilias—”
Lady Wyndover sprung to her feet with a deep cry of relief, of thanksgiving; then her face fell.
“But—but you left Belfayre with her—without a word. Why?”
“Great heavens! don’t you know? I was wired for that morning. My mother was ill; she is ill now. I have only just left her. She will tell you: go to her.”
Lady Wyndover gasped as she sunk on to the couch again.
“But you left no word—no message.”