"No; I promised you I would keep that secret."
"Be sure you do; it is only for some mischief, some snare, that she could desire such information. Concessions! pooh! This is no question of concessions, but of rights."
"I think you should leave your friend to judge of that."
"Well, I will write to him. Meanwhile, beware of this woman, I have heard much of her abroad, and she has the character of her brother for duplicity and—"
"Beauty," interrupted Audley, turning the conversation with practiced adroitness. "I am told that the Count is one of the handsomest men in Europe, much handsomer than his sister still, though nearly twice her age. Tut—tut—Harley! fear not for me. I am proof against all feminine attractions. This heart is dead."
"Nay, nay; it is not for you to speak thus—leave that to me. But even I will not say it.
The heart never dies. And you; what have you lost?—a wife; true: an excellent noble-hearted woman. But was it love that you felt for her? Enviable man, have you ever loved?"
"Perhaps not, Harley," said Audley, with a sombre aspect, and in dejected accents; "very few men ever have loved, at least as you mean by the word. But there are other passions than love that kill the heart, and reduce us to mechanism."
While Egerton spoke, Harley turned side, and his breast heaved. There was a short silence; Audley was the first to break it.
"Speaking of my lost wife, I am sorry that you do not approve what I have done for her young kinsman, Randal Leslie."