“Then you can never be mine,” Marian said firmly.

“Remember, I am not talking of a common friendship, a friendship of daily association.  I offer myself to you as refuge in the hour of trouble, a counsellor in perplexity, a brother always waiting in the background of your life to protect or serve you.  Of course, it is quite possible you may never have need of protection or service—­God knows, I wish you all happiness—­but there are not many lives quite free from trouble, and the day may come in which you will want a friend.”

“If it ever does, I will remember your goodness.”

Gilbert looked scrutinisingly at Marian Holbrook as she stood before him with the cold gray light of the sunless day full upon her face.  He wanted to read the story of her life in that beautiful face, if it were possible.  He wanted to know whether she was happy with the man who had stolen her from him.

She was very pale, but that might be fairly attributed to the agitation caused by his presence.  Gilbert fancied that there was a careworn look in her face, and that her beauty had faded a little since those peaceful days at Lidford, when these two had wasted the summer hours in idle talk under the walnut trees in the Captain’s garden.  She was dressed very plainly in black.  There was no coquettish knot of ribbon at her throat; no girlish trinkets dangled at her waist—­all those little graces and embellishments of costume which seem natural to a woman whose life is happy, were wanting in her toilet to-day; and slight as these indications were, Gilbert did not overlook them.

Did he really wish her to be happy—­happy with the rival he so fiercely hated?  He had said as much; and in saying so, he had believed that he was speaking the truth.  But he was only human; and it is just possible that, tenderly as he still loved this girl, he may have been hardly capable of taking pleasure in the thought of her happiness.

“I want you to tell me about your husband, Marian,” he said after a pause; “who and what he is.”

“Why should I do that?” she asked, looking at him with a steady, almost defiant, expression.  “You have said that you will never forgive him.  What interest can you possibly feel in his affairs?”

“I am interested in him upon your account.”

“I cannot tell you anything about him.  I do not know how you could have discovered even his name.”

“I learned that at Wygrove, where I first heard of your marriage.”

“Did you go to Wygrove, then?”

“Yes; I have told you that I spared no pains to find you.  Nor shall I spare any pains to discover the history of the man who has wronged me.  It would be wiser for you to be frank with me, Marian.  Rely upon it that I shall sooner or later learn the secret underlying this treacherous business.”

“You profess to be my friend, and yet are avowedly say husband’s enemy.  Why cannot you be truly generous, Gilbert, and pardon him?  Believe me, he was not willingly treacherous; it was his fate to do you this wrong.”