concern myself no more with your affairs; and I assure you for the last time that I have no desire to judge you.’
‘But you will not acquit me! Ah!’ she cried, ‘he will—he knows me better!’
Sir John smiled.
‘You smile at my distress?’ asked Seraphina.
‘At your woman’s coolness,’ said Sir John. ‘A man would scarce have had the courage of that cry, which was, for all that, very natural, and I make no doubt quite true. But remark, madam—since you do me the honour to consult me gravely—I have no pity for what you call your distresses. You have been completely selfish, and now reap the consequence. Had you once thought of your husband, instead of singly thinking of yourself, you would not now have been alone, a fugitive, with blood upon your hands, and hearing from a morose old Englishman truth more bitter than scandal.’
‘I thank you,’ she said, quivering. ‘This is very true. Will you stop the carriage?’
‘No, child,’ said Sir John, ‘not until I see you mistress of yourself.’
There was a long pause, during which the carriage rolled by rock and woodland.
‘And now,’ she resumed, with perfect steadiness, ‘will you consider me composed? I request you, as a gentleman, to let me out.’
