"Oh, name him not."
"He loves thee truly and fondly," said Annie.
"Dost think he loves me as Walter doth? dost think he knows what love means? Oh, no; he never conceived it. His passion is a turbulent phantasy, inflamed by rivalry, difficulty, and opposition, sharpened it may be by wounded pride and exasperated revenge. Oh, how can you forget the horrid mystery that involves the fate of his wife—the unhappy Alison Gilford?"
"Pho! she died in France."
"Of a broken heart."
"Gossip, quotha!" laughed Annie, "hearts are never broken except in the pages of De Scuderi. But with all his averred evil propensities, I think there is something very noble about Lord Clermistonlee."
"Noble?"
"Do not his wit, his elegance, and courage excite our admiration?"
"Yes—but do they make us forget that the villain lurks under that prepossessing exterior?" rejoined Lilian, scornfully.
"Dear Lilian, I have but one more argument to urge, and 'tis the old one; remember that your fair fame which his addresses have injured, requires——"