"I'd rather die," she sobbed, "than have this disgrace brought upon me."
Lionel put her into the large arm-chair, which remained in the study still, the old arm-chair of Mr. Verner. He stood by her and held her hands, his pale face grave, sad, loving, bent towards her with the most earnest sympathy. She lifted her eyes to it, whispering—
"Will they say you are not my husband?"
"Hush, Sibylla! There are moments, even yet, when I deceive myself into a fancy that it may be somewhat averted. I cannot understand how he can be alive. Has Cannonby told you whence the error arose?"
She did not answer. She began to shake again; she tossed back her golden hair. Some blue ribbons had been wreathed in it for dinner; she pulled them out and threw them on the ground, her hair partially falling with their departure.
"I wish I could have some wine?"
He moved to the door to get it for her. "Don't you let her in, Lionel," she called out as he unlocked it.
"Who?"
"That Deborah. I hate her now," was the ungenerous remark.
Lionel opened the door, called to Tynn, and desired him to bring wine. "What time did Captain Cannonby get here?" he whispered, as he took it from the butler.