"Hush!" cries Lauraine sternly. "I will not have him blamed. He has been sorely tried, and many men would have acted far worse. It is on me that all the blame lies—on me only. It all began from the fatal error of my marriage, and I deserve to suffer, I know; only sometimes, Etwynde," she adds wearily, "it does seem as if the suffering was beyond my strength."
The tears spring to Lady Etwynde's eyes.
"What will you do?" she asks despairingly.
"To-morrow I will tell Lady Jean that it is best for her visit to terminate," answers Lauraine. "I do not see why I should condone my own shame. As for the consequences, Sir Francis must do what he pleases. I know I am innocent, even if blameable—the result, time will show."
"I think you are quite right," says Lady Etwynde. "But I am afraid you will suffer for it. Lady Jean is a dangerous woman to offend."
Lauraine pushes the hair off her temples as if the weight oppressed her. "I do not expect anything else but suffering now. And I may as well endure it for right as for wrong. If I have respected my husband's name, at least he might respect mine."
"And whatever you do be sure of this," says Lady Etwynde gently: "my house is always open to you. Let the whole world turn its back upon you, Lauraine, my friendship will never fail." Lauraine looks up at the beautiful face. Her heart is too full for words.
But when she is alone again a great fear chills her. "I have done right," she says. "But—what will it cost?"