"I have done no wrong," continued Leone, with a thrill of subdued passion in her voice; "on the contrary, a cruel wrong was done to me. But when I am with her, I feel in some vague way that I are guilty. Does she know anything of your story and mine?"
His dark face burned.
"No," he replied; "she knows nothing of that except that in my youth—ah, Leone, that I must say this to you—in my youth I made some mistake; so my lady mother Was pleased to call it," he added, bitterly. "She does not know exactly what it was, nor could she ever dream for one moment that it was you."
She looked at him with a serious, questioning gaze.
"Surely you did not marry her without telling her that you had gone through that service already, did you? If so, I think you acted disloyally and dishonorably."
He bent his head in lowly humility before her.
"Leone," he said—"ah, forgive me for calling you Leone, but the name is so sweet and so dear to me—Leone, I am a miserable sinner. When I think of my weakness and cowardice, I loathe myself; I could kill myself; yet I can never undo the wrong I have done to either. She knows little, and I believe implicitly she has forgotten that little. Why do you ask me?"
"It seems so strange," said Leone, musingly, "I asked you to come here to speak to me that I might ask your advice. She, Lady Marion, has asked me to her house—has pressed me, urged me to go; and I have said that I will think of it. I want you to advise me and tell me what I should do."
"My dear Leone, I—I cannot. I should love above all things to see you at my house, but it would be painful for you and painful to me."
She continued, in a low voice: