“That—­oh, an old friend of mine.  He’s an American named Gunn.  He’s joined the Papal Zouaves from some whim, and a deuced good thing it is for them to get hold of such a man.  I happened to call one day, and found him with the ladies.”

“The ladies—­ah!” and Dacres’s eyes lighted up with a bad, hard light.  “I suppose he’s another of those precious cavaliers—­the scum of all lands—­that dance attendance on my charming wife.”

“Oh, see here now, my dear fellow, really now,” said Hawbury, “none of that, you know.  This fellow is a friend of mine, and one of the best fellows I ever saw.  You’d like him, old chap.  He’d suit you.”

“Yes, and suit my wife better,” said Dacres, bitterly.

“Oh, come now, really, my dear boy, you’re completely out.  He don’t know your wife at all.  It’s the other one, you know.  Don’t be jealous, now, if I tell you.”

“Jealous!”

“Yes.  I know your weakness, you know; but this is an old affair.  I don’t want to violate confidence, but—­”

Dacres looked hard at his friend and breathed heavily.  He was evidently much excited.

“But what?” he said, hoarsely.

“Well, you know, it’s an old affair.  It’s the young one, you know—­Miss Fay.  He rather affects her, you know.  That’s about it.”

“Miss Fay?”

“Yes; your child-angel, you know.  But it’s an older affair than yours; it is, really; so don’t be giving way, man.  Besides, his claims on her are as great as yours; yes, greater too.  By Jove!”

“Miss Fay!  Oh, is that all?” said Dacres, who, with a sigh of infinite relief, shook off all his late excitement, and became cool once more.

Hawbury noted this very thoughtfully.

“You see,” said Dacres, “that terrible wife of mine is so cursedly beautiful and fascinating, and so infernally fond of admiration, that she keeps no end of fellows tagging at her heels.  And so I didn’t know but that this was some new admirer.  Oh, she’s a deep one!  Her new style, which she has been cultivating for ten years, has made her look like an angel of light.  Why, there’s the very light of heaven in her eyes, and in her face there is nothing, I swear, but gentleness and purity and peace.  Oh, had she but been what she now seems!  Oh, if even now I could but believe this, I would even now fling my memories to the winds, and I’d lie down in the dust and let her trample on me, if she would only give me that tender and gentle love that now lurks in her face.  Good Heavens! can such a change be possible?  No; it’s impossible!  It can’t be!  Don’t I know her?  Can’t I remember her?  Is my memory all a dream?  No, it’s real; and it’s marked deep by this scar that I wear.  Never till that scar is obliterated can that woman change.”

Dacres had been speaking, as he often did now, half to himself; and as he ended he rubbed his hand over the place where the scar lay, as though to soothe the inflammation that arose from the rush of angry blood to his head.