"You can't swear to me that you don't love her?" was Sibylla's retort.
It appeared that he did not intend to swear it. He went and stood against the mantel-piece, in his old favourite attitude, leaning his elbow on it and his face upon his hand—a face that betrayed his inward pain. Sibylla began again: to tantalise him seemed a necessity of her life.
"I might have expected trouble when I consented to marry you. Rachel Frost's fate might have taught me the lesson."
"Stay," said Lionel, lifting his head. "It is not the first hint of the sort that you have given me. Tell me honestly what it is you mean."
"You need not ask; you know already. Rachel owed her disgrace to you."
Lionel paused a moment before he rejoined. When he did, it was in a quiet tone.
"Do you speak from your own opinion?"
"No, I don't. The secret was intrusted to me."
"By whom? You must tell me, Sibylla."
"I don't know why I should not," she slowly said, as if in deliberation. "My husband trusted me with it."