We walk on a little way in silence.
"You do not ask after your friends," says he, abruptly.
"Have I still any left? Well, tell me. I should like to know how is Marmaduke? and where?"
"Do you not hear from him, then?" turning to gaze suspiciously in my face.
"No; why should I? We parted forever when he brought me here. Oh," with a sudden, sharp uplifting of my voice—"how long ago it seems! what years, and years, and years! Tell me you—where is he?"
"Abroad somewhere; we none of us know where. You think of him incessantly?" still with his eyes searching and reading my face; "it is for him the color has left your cheeks, the light has died from your eyes? Is it the old life, or is it merely him you regret?"
"I think I regret nothing but my youth," return I, wearily.
"Had you never, at any time, any idea of the truth?" asks he, in a low tone, presently.
"Never. How should I. He kept it from me, fearing it would cause me pain."
"He deceived you grossly."