She even smiled to think how foolish she had been to allow such thoughts to have even for a moment a place in her mind, as she looked up and said: 

“No, indeed, Mrs. Farnum, I am not mad, and it is not impossible that I am Sir William Heath’s wife.  We were married last September, and after the death of my father, who was very ill at the time, we traveled for several months and then came to New York, intending to sail for England the last of May, but were forbidden to do so by my physician, as I have already told you.”

“Still I say it is impossible.  The Sir William Heath whom I mean is the master of a large estate called Heathdale in Hampshire County, England,” reiterated Mrs. Farnum, decisively.

“And my husband is the master of Heathdale, in Hampshire County, England,” Virgie said, a trifle proudly.

She resented the woman’s incredulity, while she could not forget what she had said about the “unimpeachable honor and untarnished name” of the family.  It had stung her keenly, though she did not suspect that it had been an intentional slur upon the shadow resting on her own.

Mrs. Farnum’s only reply was a look of increased astonishment, mingled with something of horror.

A crimson flush dyed Virgie’s face.

“May I ask, Mrs. Farnum, how long you have been in America?” she said.

“We sailed from Liverpool the sixth of May.”

Virgie’s heart sank a trifle.

“And had you seen your friend, Lady Linton, within a few months previous to that time?”

“Lady Linton came to London only three weeks before, to make me a farewell visit.  She was with me ten days.”

The young wife grew pale.

“And did she not mention the fact of her brother’s marriage?” she inquired in a faint voice.

“No such event in connection with him has ever been announced,” returned the woman, ruthlessly.  “His friends know nothing of it.  Sir William Heath is believed by his friends to be a single man.  More than this——­”

Virgie stopped her with a gesture, but she was as white as new fallen snow as she arose, and going to her writing-desk, brought a letter, which she laid upon Mrs. Farnum’s lap.

“There is his last letter to me,” she said, but her lips were almost rigid as she spoke.  “It will prove my statements.”

Mrs. Farnum took it, and examined the envelope.  It was directed to “Mrs. William Heath,——­Hotel, New York City, U.S.A.”  It was post-marked at Heathdale.  The handwriting was familiar, and she knew well enough that Sir William Heath had penned it.

“Mrs. William Heath!” she said, reading the name aloud.  “He does not address you as Lady Heath, which is your proper title if you are his wife.”

“Oh!” cried Virgie, with a shiver of pain, for those last words, implying a doubt of her position, hurt her like a knife.  “Neither of us cared to be conspicuous while we were traveling, so my husband dropped his title,” she explained.