"I am going to tell you a secret," she murmured, aloud; "but you must not reveal it to any one, I have had a strange love affair, Ida."
She felt the young wife start, her figure tremble; she saw the lovely face grow pale. But not appearing to notice her agitation, she went on:
"My hero is as dark as a Spanish knight. I met him recently. It was a case of love at first sight. He proposed to me within a fortnight. But my relatives do not like him, wealthy, handsome, courteous though he is. They have forbidden him the house, yet I think in time they will overcome their objections."
She could plainly see how her fictitious story relieved the young wife. The color came back to Ida's cheeks, the light to her eyes. She threw her arms impulsively about Vivian, and kissed her fair, lovely, treacherous face.
"You are indeed to be envied, Vivian," she said, earnestly. "To love and be loved is the greatest happiness God can give any one. I hope, for your sake, that your lover may win his way to the hearts of your relatives. But you know that the course of true love never did run smoothly."
"My lover is a great friend of your husband's, and perhaps he has told you about it?"
"No," said Ida. "I assure you that Mr. Mallard has not spoken to me on the subject," and she looked very discomforted.
"I am sure your husband must have received a letter from my lover and hidden it away somewhere. Won't you be so kind as to look thoroughly through his desk, and see?" asked Vivian.
Ida drew back in alarm.