I get through my toilet with a good deal of deliberation. I am in no great hurry to find myself downstairs; I am determined to afford him every chance of getting clear of the premises before I make my appearance.
When dressed to Martha's satisfaction, I go cautiously through tho house, and, contrary to my usual custom, make straight for Marmaduke's study. Opening the door without knocking, I find myself face to face with Marmaduke and Sir Mark Gore.
I feel petrified, and somewhat guilty. Of what use my condemning myself to solitary confinement for so many hours, if the close of them only brings me in contact with what I have so striven to avoid?
Marmaduke's blue eyes are flashing, and his lips are white and compressed. Sir Mark, always dark and supercilious, is looking much the same as usual, except for a certain bitter expression that adorns the corners of his mouth. Both men regard me fixedly as I enter, but with what different feelings!
Marmaduke holds out his hand to me, and the flash dies in his eyes. Sir Mark's lips form the one word "false."
"No, I am not false," I protest, vehemently, putting my hand through Marmaduke's arm, and glancing at my opponent defiantly from my shelter; "'Duke is my husband; why should I hide anything from him? I told you I would conceal nothing."
"What charming wifely conduct!" says Sir Mark, with a sneer; "not only do you confide to him all your own little affairs, but you are ready also at a moment's notice to forgive him any peccadilloes of which he has been guilty."
I feel 'Duke quiver with rage, but laying a warning pressure on his arm, I succeed in restraining him.
"He has been guilty of none," I cry, indignantly. "He never cared for any one but me, as you well know."
Sir Mark looks down, and smiles meaningly; I redden with anger.