ward to open the door for her, and as she passed out she exclaimed to me mockingly: "You haven't got your wits about you—you sha'n't have my hand!"
I closed the door and turned round to find that Sir Edmund Orme had during the moment my back was presented to him retired by the window. Mrs. Marden stood there and we looked at each other long. It had only then—as the girl flitted away—come home to me that her daughter was unconscious of what had happened. It was that, oddly enough, that gave me a sudden, sharp shake, and not my own perception of our visitor, which appeared perfectly natural. It made the fact vivid to me that she had been equally unaware of him in church, and the two facts together—now that they were over—set my heart more sensibly beating. I wiped my forehead, and Mrs. Marden broke out with a low distressful wail: "Now you know my life—now you know my life!"
"In God's name who is he—what is he?"
"He's a man I wronged."
"How did you wrong him?"
"Oh, awfully—years ago."
"Years ago? Why, he's very young."
"Young—young?" cried Mrs. Marden. "He was born before I was!"
"Then why does he look so?"
She came nearer to me, she laid her hand on my arm, and there was something in her face that made me shrink a little. "Don't you understand—don't you feel?" she murmured, reproachfully.
"I feel very queer!" I laughed; and I was conscious that my laugh betrayed it.
"He's dead!" said Mrs. Marden, from her white face.
"Dead?" I panted. "Then that gentleman was — ?" I couldn't even say the word.