"Madam," said John Law, in deep and vibrant tone, "you will pardon me if I say that it gives me surprise to see you here."
"Yes; I have come," said the girl, not logically.
"You bring, perhaps, some message?"
"I—I brought a message."
"It is from the Lady Catharine?"
Mary Connynge was silent for a moment. It was necessary that, at least for a moment, the poison of some æons should distil. There was need of savagery to say what she proposed to say. The voice of training, of civilization, of unselfishness, of friendship raised a protest. Wait then for a moment. Wait until the bitterness of an ambitious and unrounded life could formulate this evil impulse. Wait, till Mary Connynge could summon treachery enough to slay her friend. And yet, wait only until the primitive soul of Mary Connynge should become altogether imperative in its demands! For after all, was not this friend a woman, and is not the earth builded as it is? And hath not God made male and female its inhabitants; and as there is war of male and male, is there not war of female and female, until the end of time?
"I came from the Lady Catharine," said Mary Connynge, slowly, "but I bring no message from her of the sort which perhaps you wished." It was a desperate, reckless lie, a lie almost certain of detection yet it was the only resource of the moment, and a moment later it was too late to recall. One lie must now follow another, and all must make a deadly coil.
"Madam, I am sorry," said John Law, quietly, yet his face twitched sharply at the impact of these cutting words. "Did you know of my letter to her?"
"Am I not here?" said Mary Connynge.
"True, and I thank you deeply. But how, why-pray you, understand that I would be set right. I would not undergo more than is necessary. Will you not explain?"