IV

She determined not to go to dinner--she wished for that day not to meet

him again. He would drink more--he would be worse--she didn't know what

he might say. Besides she was too angry--not with him but with

Selina--and in addition to being angry she was sick. She knew who Lady

Ringrose was; she knew so many things to-day that when she was

younger--and only a little--she had not expected ever to know. Her eyes

had been opened very wide in England and certainly they had been opened

to Lady Ringrose. She had heard what she had done and perhaps a good

deal more, and it was not very different from what she had heard of

other women. She knew Selina had been to her house; she had an

impression that her ladyship had been to Selina's, in London, though she

herself had not seen her there. But she had not known they were so

intimate as that--that Selina would rush over to Paris with her. What

they had gone to Paris for was not necessarily criminal; there were a

hundred reasons, familiar to ladies who were fond of change, of

movement, of the theatres and of new bonnets; but nevertheless it was

the fact of this little excursion quite as much as the companion that

excited Laura's disgust.

She was not ready to say that the companion was any worse, though

Lionel appeared to think so, than twenty other women who were her

sister's intimates and whom she herself had seen in London, in Grosvenor

Place, and even under the motherly old beeches at Mellows. But she

thought it unpleasant and base in Selina to go abroad that way, like a

commercial traveller, capriciously, clandestinely, without giving

notice, when she had left her to understand that she was simply spending

three or four days in town. It was bad taste and bad form, it was

_cabotin_ and had the mark of Selina's complete, irremediable

frivolity--the worst accusation (Laura tried to cling to that opinion)

that she laid herself open to. Of course frivolity that was never

ashamed of itself was like a neglected cold--you could die of it morally

as well as of anything else. Laura knew this and it was why she was

inexpressibly vexed with her sister. She hoped she should get a letter

from Selina the next morning (Mrs. Berrington would show at least that

remnant of propriety) which would give her a chance to despatch her an

answer that was already writing itself in her brain. It scarcely

diminished Laura's eagerness for such an opportunity that she had a

vision of Selina's showing her letter, laughing, across the table, at

the place near the Madeleine, to Lady Ringrose (who would be

painted--Selina herself, to do her justice, was not yet) while the

French waiters, in white aprons, contemplated _ces dames_. It was new

work for our young lady to judge of these shades--the gradations, the

probabilities of license, and of the side of the line on which, or

rather how far on the wrong side, Lady Ringrose was situated.

A quarter of an hour before dinner Lionel sent word to her room that

she was to sit down without him--he had a headache and wouldn't appear.

This was an unexpected grace and it simplified the position for Laura;

so that, smoothing her ruffles, she betook herself to the table. Before

doing this however she went back to the schoolroom and told Miss Steet

she must contribute her company. She took the governess (the little boys

were in bed) downstairs with her and made her sit opposite, thinking she

would be a safeguard if Lionel were to change his mind. Miss Steet was

more frightened than herself--she was a very shrinking bulwark. The

dinner was dull and the conversation rare; the governess ate three

olives and looked at the figures on the spoons. Laura had more than ever

her sense of impending calamity; a draught of misfortune seemed to blow

through the house; it chilled her feet under her chair. The letter she

had in her head went out like a flame in the wind and her only thought

now was to telegraph to Selina the first thing in the morning, in quite

different words. She scarcely spoke to Miss Steet and there was very

little the governess could say to her: she had already related her

history so often. After dinner she carried her companion into the

drawing-room, by the arm, and they sat down to the piano together. They

played duets for an hour, mechanically, violently; Laura had no idea

what the music was--she only knew that their playing was execrable. In

spite of this--'That's a very nice thing, that last,' she heard a vague

voice say, behind her, at the end; and she became aware that her

brother-in-law had joined them again.

Miss Steet was pusillanimous--she retreated on the spot, though Lionel

had already forgotten that he was angry at the scandalous way she had

carried off the children from the schoolroom. Laura would have gone too

if Lionel had not told her that he had something very particular to say

to her. That made her want to go more, but she had to listen to him when

he expressed the hope that she hadn't taken offence at anything he had

said before. He didn't strike her as tipsy now; he had slept it off or

got rid of it and she saw no traces of his headache. He was still

conspicuously cheerful, as if he had got some good news and were very

much encouraged. She knew the news he had got and she might have

thought, in view of his manner, that it could not really have seemed to

him so bad as he had pretended to think it. It was not the first time

however that she had seen him pleased that he had a case against his

wife, and she was to learn on this occasion how extreme a satisfaction

he could take in his wrongs. She would not sit down again; she only

lingered by the fire, pretending to warm her feet, and he walked to and

fro in the long room, where the lamp-light to-night was limited,

stepping on certain figures of the carpet as if his triumph were alloyed

with hesitation.

'I never know how to talk to you--you are so beastly clever,' he said.

'I can't treat you like a little girl in a pinafore--and yet of course

you are only a young lady. You're so deuced good--that makes it worse,'

he went on, stopping in front of her with his hands in his pockets and

the air he himself had of being a good-natured but dissipated boy; with

his small stature, his smooth, fat, suffused face, his round, watery,

light-coloured eyes and his hair growing in curious infantile rings. He

had lost one of his front teeth and always wore a stiff white scarf,

with a pin representing some symbol of the turf or the chase. 'I don't

see why _she_ couldn't have been a little more like you. If I could have

had a shot at you first!'

'I don't care for any compliments at my sister's expense,' Laura said,

with some majesty.

'Oh I say, Laura, don't put on so many frills, as Selina says. You know

what your sister is as well as I do!' They stood looking at each other a

moment and he appeared to see something in her face which led him to

add--'You know, at any rate, how little we hit it off.'

'I know you don't love each other--it's too dreadful.'

'Love each other? she hates me as she'd hate a hump on her back. She'd

do me any devilish turn she could. There isn't a feeling of loathing

that she doesn't have for me! She'd like to stamp on me and hear me

crack, like a black beetle, and she never opens her mouth but she

insults me.' Lionel Berrington delivered himself of these assertions

without violence, without passion or the sting of a new discovery; there

was a familiar gaiety in his trivial little tone and he had the air of

being so sure of what he said that he did not need to exaggerate in

order to prove enough.

'Oh, Lionel!' the girl murmured, turning pale. 'Is that the particular

thing you wished to say to me?'

'And you can't say it's my fault--you won't pretend to do that, will

you?' he went on. 'Ain't I quiet, ain't I kind, don't I go steady?

Haven't I given her every blessed thing she has ever asked for?'

'You haven't given her an example!' Laura replied, with spirit. 'You

don't care for anything in the wide world but to amuse yourself, from

the beginning of the year to the end. No more does she--and perhaps it's

even worse in a woman. You are both as selfish as you can live, with

nothing in your head or your heart but your vulgar pleasure, incapable

of a concession, incapable of a sacrifice!' She at least spoke with

passion; something that had been pent up in her soul broke out and it

gave her relief, almost a momentary joy.

It made Lionel Berrington stare; he coloured, but after a moment he

threw back his head with laughter. 'Don't you call me kind when I stand

here and take all that? If I'm so keen for my pleasure what pleasure do

_you_ give me? Look at the way I take it, Laura. You ought to do me

justice. Haven't I sacrificed my home? and what more can a man do?'

'I don't think you care any more for your home than Selina does. And

it's so sacred and so beautiful, God forgive you! You are all blind and

senseless and heartless and I don't know what poison is in your veins.

There is a curse on you and there will be a judgment!' the girl went on,

glowing like a young prophetess.

'What do you want me to do? Do you want me to stay at home and read the

Bible?' her companion demanded with an effect of profanity, confronted

with her deep seriousness.

'It wouldn't do you any harm, once in a while.'

'There will be a judgment on _her_--that's very sure, and I know where

it will be delivered,' said Lionel Berrington, indulging in a visible

approach to a wink. 'Have I done the half to her she has done to me? I

won't say the half but the hundredth part? Answer me truly, my dear!'

'I don't know what she has done to you,' said Laura, impatiently.

'That's exactly what I want to tell you. But it's difficult. I'll bet

you five pounds she's doing it now!'

'You are too unable to make yourself respected,' the girl remarked, not

shrinking now from the enjoyment of an advantage--that of feeling

herself superior and taking her opportunity.

Her brother-in-law seemed to feel for the moment the prick of this

observation. 'What has such a piece of nasty boldness as that to do with

respect? She's the first that ever defied me!' exclaimed the young man,

whose aspect somehow scarcely confirmed this pretension. 'You know all

about her--don't make believe you don't,' he continued in another tone.

'You see everything--you're one of the sharp ones. There's no use

beating about the bush, Laura--you've lived in this precious house and

you're not so green as that comes to. Besides, you're so good yourself

that you needn't give a shriek if one is obliged to say what one means.

Why didn't you grow up a little sooner? Then, over there in New York, it

would certainly have been you I would have made up to. _You_ would have

respected me--eh? now don't say you wouldn't.' He rambled on, turning

about the room again, partly like a person whose sequences were

naturally slow but also a little as if, though he knew what he had in

mind, there were still a scruple attached to it that he was trying to

rub off.

'I take it that isn't what I must sit up to listen to, Lionel, is it?'

Laura said, wearily.

'Why, you don't want to go to bed at nine o'clock, do you? That's all

rot, of course. But I want you to help me.'

'To help you--how?'

'I'll tell you--but you must give me my head. I don't know what I said

to you before dinner--I had had too many brandy and sodas. Perhaps I was

too free; if I was I beg your pardon. I made the governess bolt--very

proper in the superintendent of one's children. Do you suppose they saw

anything? I shouldn't care for that. I did take half a dozen or so; I

was thirsty and I was awfully gratified.'

'You have little enough to gratify you.'

'Now that's just where you are wrong. I don't know when I've fancied

anything so much as what I told you.'

'What you told me?'

'About her being in Paris. I hope she'll stay a month!'

'I don't understand you,' Laura said.

'Are you very sure, Laura? My dear, it suits my book! Now you know

yourself he's not the first.'

Laura was silent; his round eyes were fixed on her face and she saw

something she had not seen before--a little shining point which on

Lionel's part might represent an idea, but which made his expression

conscious as well as eager. 'He?' she presently asked. 'Whom are you

speaking of?'

'Why, of Charley Crispin, G----' And Lionel Berrington accompanied this

name with a startling imprecation.

'What has he to do----?'

'He has everything to do. Isn't he with her there?'

'How should I know? You said Lady Ringrose.'

'Lady Ringrose is a mere blind--and a devilish poor one at that. I'm

sorry to have to say it to you, but he's her lover. I mean Selina's. And

he ain't the first.'

There was another short silence while they stood opposed, and then Laura

asked--and the question was unexpected--'Why do you call him Charley?'

'Doesn't he call me Lion, like all the rest?' said her brother-in-law,

staring.

'You're the most extraordinary people. I suppose you have a certain

amount of proof before you say such things to me?'

'Proof, I've oceans of proof! And not only about Crispin, but about

Deepmere.'

'And pray who is Deepmere?'

'Did you never hear of Lord Deepmere? He has gone to India. That was

before you came. I don't say all this for my pleasure, Laura,' Mr.

Berrington added.

'Don't you, indeed?' asked the girl with a singular laugh. 'I thought

you were so glad.'

'I'm glad to know it but I'm not glad to tell it. When I say I'm glad to

know it I mean I'm glad to be fixed at last. Oh, I've got the tip! It's

all open country now and I know just how to go. I've gone into it most

extensively; there's nothing you can't find out to-day--if you go to the

right place. I've--I've----' He hesitated a moment, then went on: 'Well,

it's no matter what I've done. I know where I am and it's a great

comfort. She's up a tree, if ever a woman was. Now we'll see who's a

beetle and who's a toad!' Lionel Berrington concluded, gaily, with some

incongruity of metaphor.

'It's not true--it's not true--it's not true,' Laura said, slowly.

'That's just what she'll say--though that's not the way she'll say it.

Oh, if she could get off by your saying it for her!--for you, my dear,

would be believed.'

'Get off--what do you mean?' the girl demanded, with a coldness she

failed to feel, for she was tingling all over with shame and rage.

'Why, what do you suppose I'm talking about? I'm going to haul her up

and to have it out.'

'You're going to make a scandal?'

'_Make_ it? Bless my soul, it isn't me! And I should think it was made

enough. I'm going to appeal to the laws of my country--that's what I'm

going to do. She pretends I'm stopped, whatever she does. But that's all

gammon--I ain't!'

'I understand--but you won't do anything so horrible,' said Laura, very

gently.

'Horrible as you please, but less so than going on in this way; I

haven't told you the fiftieth part--you will easily understand that I

can't. They are not nice things to say to a girl like you--especially

about Deepmere, if you didn't know it. But when they happen you've got

to look at them, haven't you? That's the way I look at it.'

'It's not true--it's not true--it's not true,' Laura Wing repeated, in

the same way, slowly shaking her head.

'Of course you stand up for your sister--but that's just what I wanted

to say to you, that you ought to have some pity for _me_ and some sense

of justice. Haven't I always been nice to you? Have you ever had so much

as a nasty word from me?'

This appeal touched the girl; she had eaten her brother-in-law's bread

for months, she had had the use of all the luxuries with which he was

surrounded, and to herself personally she had never known him anything

but good-natured. She made no direct response however; she only

said--'Be quiet, be quiet and leave her to me. I will answer for her.'

'Answer for her--what do you mean?'

'She shall be better--she shall be reasonable--there shall be no more

talk of these horrors. Leave her to me--let me go away with her

somewhere.'

'Go away with her? I wouldn't let you come within a mile of her, if you

were _my_ sister!'

'Oh, shame, shame!' cried Laura Wing, turning away from him.

She hurried to the door of the room, but he stopped her before she

reached it. He got his back to it, he barred her way and she had to

stand there and hear him. 'I haven't said what I wanted--for I told you

that I wanted you to help me. I ain't cruel--I ain't insulting--you

can't make out that against me; I'm sure you know in your heart that

I've swallowed what would sicken most men. Therefore I will say that you

ought to be fair. You're too clever not to be; _you_ can't pretend to

swallow----' He paused a moment and went on, and she saw it was his

idea--an idea very simple and bold. He wanted her to side with him--to

watch for him--to help him to get his divorce. He forbore to say that

she owed him as much for the hospitality and protection she had in her

poverty enjoyed, but she was sure that was in his heart. 'Of course

she's your sister, but when one's sister's a perfect bad 'un there's no

law to force one to jump into the mud to save her. It _is_ mud, my dear,

and mud up to your neck. You had much better think of her children--you

had much better stop in _my_ boat.'

'Do you ask me to help you with evidence against her?' the girl

murmured. She had stood there passive, waiting while he talked, covering

her face with her hands, which she parted a little, looking at him.

He hesitated a moment. 'I ask you not to deny what you have seen--what

you feel to be true.'

'Then of the abominations of which you say you have proof, you haven't

proof.'

'Why haven't I proof?'

'If you want _me_ to come forward!'

'I shall go into court with a strong case. You may do what you like. But

I give you notice and I expect you not to forget that I have given it.

Don't forget--because you'll be asked--that I have told you to-night

where she is and with whom she is and what measures I intend to take.'

'Be asked--be asked?' the girl repeated.

'Why, of course you'll be cross-examined.'

'Oh, mother, mother!' cried Laura Wing. Her hands were over her face

again and as Lionel Berrington, opening the door, let her pass, she

burst into tears. He looked after her, distressed, compunctious,

half-ashamed, and he exclaimed to himself--'The bloody brute, the bloody

brute!' But the words had reference to his wife.

V

'And are you telling me the perfect truth when you say that Captain

Crispin was not there?'

'The perfect truth?' Mrs. Berrington straightened herself to her height,

threw back her head and measured her interlocutress up and down; it is

to be surmised that this was one of the many ways in which she knew she

looked very handsome indeed. Her interlocutress was her sister, and even

in a discussion with a person long since initiated she was not incapable

of feeling that her beauty was a new advantage. On this occasion she had

at first the air of depending upon it mainly to produce an effect upon

Laura; then, after an instant's reflection, she determined to arrive at

her result in another way. She exchanged her expression of scorn (of

resentment at her veracity's being impugned) for a look of gentle

amusement; she smiled patiently, as if she remembered that of course

Laura couldn't understand of what an impertinence she had been guilty.

There was a quickness of perception and lightness of hand which, to her

sense, her American sister had never acquired: the girl's earnest,

almost barbarous probity blinded her to the importance of certain

pleasant little forms. 'My poor child, the things you do say! One

doesn't put a question about the perfect truth in a manner that implies

that a person is telling a perfect lie. However, as it's only you, I

don't mind satisfying your clumsy curiosity. I haven't the least idea

whether Captain Crispin was there or not. I know nothing of his

movements and he doesn't keep me informed--why should he, poor man?--of

his whereabouts. He was not there for me--isn't that all that need

interest you? As far as I was concerned he might have been at the North

Pole. I neither saw him nor heard of him. I didn't see the end of his

nose!' Selina continued, still with her wiser, tolerant brightness,

looking straight into her sister's eyes. Her own were clear and lovely

and she was but little less handsome than if she had been proud and

freezing. Laura wondered at her more and more; stupefied suspense was

now almost the girl's constant state of mind.

Mrs. Berrington had come back from Paris the day before but had not

proceeded to Mellows the same night, though there was more than one

train she might have taken. Neither had she gone to the house in

Grosvenor Place but had spent the night at an hotel. Her husband was

absent again; he was supposed to be in Grosvenor Place, so that they had

not yet met. Little as she was a woman to admit that she had been in the

wrong she was known to have granted later that at this moment she had

made a mistake in not going straight to her own house. It had given

Lionel a degree of advantage, made it appear perhaps a little that she

had a bad conscience and was afraid to face him. But she had had her

reasons for putting up at an hotel, and she thought it unnecessary to

express them very definitely. She came home by a morning train, the

second day, and arrived before luncheon, of which meal she partook in

the company of her sister and in that of Miss Steet and the children,

sent for in honour of the occasion. After luncheon she let the governess

go but kept Scratch and Parson--kept them on ever so long in the

morning-room where she remained; longer than she had ever kept them

before. Laura was conscious that she ought to have been pleased at this,

but there was a perversity even in Selina's manner of doing right; for

she wished immensely now to see her alone--she had something so serious

to say to her. Selina hugged her children repeatedly, encouraging their

sallies; she laughed extravagantly at the artlessness of their remarks,

so that at table Miss Steet was quite abashed by her unusual high

spirits. Laura was unable to question her about Captain Crispin and Lady

Ringrose while Geordie and Ferdy were there: they would not understand,

of course, but names were always reflected in their limpid little minds

and they gave forth the image later--often in the most extraordinary

connections. It was as if Selina knew what she was waiting for and were

determined to make her wait. The girl wished her to go to her room, that

she might follow her there. But Selina showed no disposition to retire,

and one could never entertain the idea for her, on any occasion, that it

would be suitable that she should change her dress. The dress she

wore--whatever it was--was too becoming to her, and to the moment, for

that. Laura noticed how the very folds of her garment told that she had

been to Paris; she had spent only a week there but the mark of her

_couturiere_ was all over her: it was simply to confer with this great

artist that, from her own account, she had crossed the Channel. The

signs of the conference were so conspicuous that it was as if she had

said, 'Don't you see the proof that it was for nothing but _chiffons_?'

She walked up and down the room with Geordie in her arms, in an access

of maternal tenderness; he was much too big to nestle gracefully in her

bosom, but that only made her seem younger, more flexible, fairer in her

tall, strong slimness. Her distinguished figure bent itself hither and

thither, but always in perfect freedom, as she romped with her children;

and there was another moment, when she came slowly down the room,

holding one of them in each hand and singing to them while they looked

up at her beauty, charmed and listening and a little surprised at such

new ways--a moment when she might have passed for some grave, antique

statue of a young matron, or even for a picture of Saint Cecilia. This

morning, more than ever, Laura was struck with her air of youth, the

inextinguishable freshness that would have made any one exclaim at her

being the mother of such bouncing little boys. Laura had always admired

her, thought her the prettiest woman in London, the beauty with the

finest points; and now these points were so vivid (especially her

finished slenderness and the grace, the natural elegance of every

turn--the fall of her shoulders had never looked so perfect) that the

girl almost detested them: they appeared to her a kind of advertisement

of danger and even of shame.

Miss Steet at last came back for the children, and as soon as she had

taken them away Selina observed that she would go over to Plash--just

as she was: she rang for her hat and jacket and for the carriage. Laura

could see that she would not give her just yet the advantage of a

retreat to her room. The hat and jacket were quickly brought, but after

they were put on Selina kept her maid in the drawing-room, talking to

her a long time, telling her elaborately what she wished done with the

things she had brought from Paris. Before the maid departed the carriage

was announced, and the servant, leaving the door of the room open,

hovered within earshot. Laura then, losing patience, turned out the maid

and closed the door; she stood before her sister, who was prepared for

her drive. Then she asked her abruptly, fiercely, but colouring with her

question, whether Captain Crispin had been in Paris. We have heard Mrs.

Berrington's answer, with which her strenuous sister was imperfectly

satisfied; a fact the perception of which it doubtless was that led

Selina to break out, with a greater show of indignation: 'I never heard

of such extraordinary ideas for a girl to have, and such extraordinary

things for a girl to talk about! My dear, you have acquired a

freedom--you have emancipated yourself from conventionality--and I

suppose I must congratulate you.' Laura only stood there, with her eyes

fixed, without answering the sally, and Selina went on, with another

change of tone: 'And pray if he _was_ there, what is there so monstrous?

Hasn't it happened that he is in London when I am there? Why is it then

so awful that he should be in Paris?'

'Awful, awful, too awful,' murmured Laura, with intense gravity, still

looking at her--looking all the more fixedly that she knew how little

Selina liked it.

'My dear, you do indulge in a style of innuendo, for a respectable

young woman!' Mrs. Berrington exclaimed, with an angry laugh. 'You have

ideas that when I was a girl----' She paused, and her sister saw that

she had not the assurance to finish her sentence on that particular

note.

'Don't talk about my innuendoes and my ideas--you might remember those

in which I have heard you indulge! Ideas? what ideas did I ever have

before I came here?' Laura Wing asked, with a trembling voice. 'Don't

pretend to be shocked, Selina; that's too cheap a defence. You have said

things to me--if you choose to talk of freedom! What is the talk of your

house and what does one hear if one lives with you? I don't care what I

hear now (it's all odious and there's little choice and my sweet

sensibility has gone God knows where!) and I'm very glad if you

understand that I don't care what I say. If one talks about your

affairs, my dear, one mustn't be too particular!' the girl continued,

with a flash of passion.

Mrs. Berrington buried her face in her hands. 'Merciful powers, to be

insulted, to be covered with outrage, by one's wretched little sister!'

she moaned.

'I think you should be thankful there is one human being--however

wretched--who cares enough for you to care about the truth in what

concerns you,' Laura said. 'Selina, Selina--are you hideously deceiving

us?'

'Us?' Selina repeated, with a singular laugh. 'Whom do you mean by us?'

Laura Wing hesitated; she had asked herself whether it would be best she

should let her sister know the dreadful scene she had had with Lionel;

but she had not, in her mind, settled that point. However, it was

settled now in an instant. 'I don't mean your friends--those of them

that I have seen. I don't think _they_ care a straw--I have never seen

such people. But last week Lionel spoke to me--he told me he _knew_ it,

as a certainty.'

'Lionel spoke to you?' said Mrs. Berrington, holding up her head with a

stare. 'And what is it that he knows?'

'That Captain Crispin was in Paris and that you were with him. He

believes you went there to meet him.'

'He said this to _you_?'

'Yes, and much more--I don't know why I should make a secret of it.'

'The disgusting beast!' Selina exclaimed slowly, solemnly. 'He enjoys

the right--the legal right--to pour forth his vileness upon _me_; but

when he is so lost to every feeling as to begin to talk to you in such a

way----!' And Mrs. Berrington paused, in the extremity of her

reprobation.

'Oh, it was not his talk that shocked me--it was his believing it,' the

girl replied. 'That, I confess, made an impression on me.'

'Did it indeed? I'm infinitely obliged to you! You are a tender, loving

little sister.'

'Yes, I am, if it's tender to have cried about you--all these days--till

I'm blind and sick!' Laura replied. 'I hope you are prepared to meet

him. His mind is quite made up to apply for a divorce.'

Laura's voice almost failed her as she said this--it was the first time

that in talking with Selina she had uttered that horrible word. She had

heard it however, often enough on the lips of others; it had been

bandied lightly enough in her presence under those somewhat austere

ceilings of Mellows, of which the admired decorations and mouldings, in

the taste of the middle of the last century, all in delicate plaster and

reminding her of Wedgewood pottery, consisted of slim festoons, urns and

trophies and knotted ribbons, so many symbols of domestic affection and

irrevocable union. Selina herself had flashed it at her with light

superiority, as if it were some precious jewel kept in reserve, which

she could convert at any moment into specie, so that it would constitute

a happy provision for her future. The idea--associated with her own

point of view--was apparently too familiar to Mrs. Berrington to be the

cause of her changing colour; it struck her indeed, as presented by

Laura, in a ludicrous light, for her pretty eyes expanded a moment and

she smiled pityingly. 'Well, you are a poor dear innocent, after all.

Lionel would be about as able to divorce me--even if I were the most

abandoned of my sex--as he would be to write a leader in the _Times_.'

'I know nothing about that,' said Laura.

'So I perceive--as I also perceive that you must have shut your eyes

very tight. Should you like to know a few of the reasons--heaven forbid

I should attempt to go over them all; there are millions!--why his hands

are tied?'

'Not in the least.'

'Should you like to know that his own life is too base for words and

that his impudence in talking about me would be sickening if it weren't

grotesque?' Selina went on, with increasing emotion. 'Should you like me

to tell you to what he has stooped--to the very gutter--and the

charming history of his relations with----'

'No, I don't want you to tell me anything of the sort,' Laura

interrupted. 'Especially as you were just now so pained by the license

of my own allusions.'

'You listen to him then--but it suits your purpose not to listen to me!'

'Oh, Selina, Selina!' the girl almost shrieked, turning away.

'Where have your eyes been, or your senses, or your powers of

observation? You can be clever enough when it suits you!' Mrs.

Berrington continued, throwing off another ripple of derision. 'And now

perhaps, as the carriage is waiting, you will let me go about my

duties.'

Laura turned again and stopped her, holding her arm as she passed toward

the door. 'Will you swear--will you swear by everything that is most

sacred?'

'Will I swear what?' And now she thought Selina visibly blanched.

'That you didn't lay eyes on Captain Crispin in Paris.'

Mrs. Berrington hesitated, but only for an instant. 'You are really too

odious, but as you are pinching me to death I will swear, to get away

from you. I never laid eyes on him.'

The organs of vision which Mrs. Berrington was ready solemnly to declare

that she had not misapplied were, as her sister looked into them, an

abyss of indefinite prettiness. The girl had sounded them before without

discovering a conscience at the bottom of them, and they had never

helped any one to find out anything about their possessor except that

she was one of the beauties of London. Even while Selina spoke Laura had

a cold, horrible sense of not believing her, and at the same time a

desire, colder still, to extract a reiteration of the pledge. Was it the

asseveration of her innocence that she wished her to repeat, or only the

attestation of her falsity? One way or the other it seemed to her that

this would settle something, and she went on inexorably--'By our dear

mother's memory--by our poor father's?'

'By my mother's, by my father's,' said Mrs. Berrington, 'and by that of

any other member of the family you like!' Laura let her go; she had not

been pinching her, as Selina described the pressure, but had clung to

her with insistent hands. As she opened the door Selina said, in a

changed voice: 'I suppose it's no use to ask you if you care to drive to

Plash.'

'No, thank you, I don't care--I shall take a walk.'

'I suppose, from that, that your friend Lady Davenant has gone.'

'No, I think she is still there.'

'That's a bore!' Selina exclaimed, as she went off.