'But are you changed, Venetia?' he said in a voice of emotion; 'for all other change is nothing.'
'I meet you with pleasure,' she replied; 'I hear of your fame with pride. You cannot suppose that it is possible I should cease to be interested in your welfare.'
'Your mother does not meet me with pleasure; she hears of nothing that has occurred to me with pride; your mother has ceased to take an interest in my welfare; and why should you be unchanged?'
'You mistake my mother.'
'No, no,' replied Cadurcis, shaking his head, 'I have read her inmost soul to-day. Your mother hates me; me, whom she once styled her son. She was a mother once to me, and you were my sister. If I have lost her heart, why have I not lost yours?'
'My heart, if you care for it, is unchanged,' said Venetia.
'O Venetia, whatever you may think, I never wanted the solace of a sister's love more than I do at this moment.'
'I pledged my affection to you when we were children,' replied
Venetia; 'you have done nothing to forfeit it, and it is yours still.'
'When we were children,' said Cadurcis, musingly; 'when we were innocent; when we were happy. You, at least, are innocent still; are you happy, Venetia?'
'Life has brought sorrows even to me, Plantagenet.'