“Lady Ruth proved herself an excellent tactician last night,” she remarked.  “She has given me an exceedingly uncomfortable few hours.  For you, well for you it was a respite, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know that I should call it exactly that,” he answered thoughtfully.

She looked at him steadfastly, almost wistfully.

“Well,” she said, “I am not going to make excuses for myself.  But the things which one says naturally enough when the emotions provoke them sound crude enough in cold blood and colder daylight.  We women are creatures of mood, you know.  I was feeling a little lonely and a little tired last night, and the music stole away my common sense.”

“I understand,” he murmured.  “All that you said shall be forgotten.”

“Then you do not understand,” she answered, smiling at him.  “What I said I do not wish to be forgotten.  Only—­just at that moment, it sounded natural enough—­and today—­I think that I am a little ashamed.”

He rose from his seat.  Her eyes leaped up to his expectantly, and the color streamed into her cheeks.  But he only stood by her side.  He did nothing to meet the half-proffered embrace.

“Dear Lady Emily,” he said, “all the kind things that you said were spoken to a stranger.  You did not know me.  I did not mean anyone to know me.  It is you who have commanded the truth.  You must have it.  I am not the person I seem to be.  I am not the person to whom words such as yours should have been spoken.  Even my name is an assumed one.  I should prefer to leave it at that—­if you are content.”

“I am not content,” she answered quietly; “I must hear more.”

He bowed.

“I am a man,” he said, “who spent ten years in prison, the ten best years of my life.  A woman sent me there—­a woman swore my liberty away to save her reputation.  I was never of a forgiving disposition, I was never an amiably disposed person.  I want you to understand this.  Any of the ordinary good qualities with which the average man may be endowed, and which I may have possessed, are as dead in me as hell fire could burn them.  You have spoken of me as of a man who failed to find a sufficient object in life.  You were wrong.  I have an object, and I do my best to live up to it.  I hate the whole world of men and women who laughed their way through life whilst I suffered—­tortures.  I hate the woman who sent me there.  I have no heart, nor any sense of pity.  Now perhaps you can understand my life and the manner of it.”

Her hands were clasped to the side of her head.  Something of horror had stolen into the steadfast gaze with which she was still regarding him.  Yet there were other things there which puzzled him.

“This—­is terrible!” she murmured.  “Then you are not—­Mr. Wingrave at all?”

He hesitated.  After all, it was scarcely worth while concealing anything now.

“I am Sir Wingrave Seton,” he said.  “You may remember my little affair!”