Dacres paused here, rubbed his hand violently over his hair at the place where the scar was, and then, frowning heavily, resumed: 

“Well, this afternoon I called again.  They were at home.  On entering I found three ladies there.  One was Lady Dalrymple, and the others were Minnie and her friend Ethel—­either her friend or her sister.  I think she’s her sister.  Well, I sat for about five minutes, and was just beginning to feel the full sense of my happiness, when the door opened and another lady entered.  Hawbury”—­and Dacres’s tones deepened into an awful solemnity—­“Hawbury, it was the lady that I saw in the carriage yesterday.  One look at her was enough.  I was assured then that my impressions yesterday were not dreams, but the damnable and abhorrent truth!”

“What impressions—­you haven’t told me yet, you know?”

[Illustration:  “I STOOD TRANSFIXED.”]

“Wait a minute.  I rose as she entered, and confronted her.  She looked at me calmly, and then stood as though expecting to be introduced.  There was no emotion visible whatever.  She was prepared for it:  I was not:  and so she was as cool as when I saw her last, and, what is more, just as young and beautiful.”

“The devil!” cried Hawbury.

Dacres poured out another glass of ale and drank it.  His hand trembled slightly as he put down the glass, and he sat for some time in thought before he went on.

“Well, Lady Dalrymple introduced us.  It was Mrs. Willoughby!”

“By Jove!” cried Hawbury.  “I saw you were coming to that.”

“Well, you know, the whole thing was so sudden, so unexpected, and so perfectly overwhelming, that I stood transfixed.  I said nothing.  I believe I bowed, and then somehow or other, I really don’t know how, I got away, and, mounting my horse, rode off like a madman.  Then I came home, and here you see me.”

There was a silence now for some time.

“Are you sure that it was your wife?”

“Of course I am.  How could I be mistaken?”

“Are you sure the name was Willoughby?”

“Perfectly sure.”

“And that is the name your wife took?”

“Yes; I told you so before, didn’t I?”

“Yes.  But think now.  Mightn’t there be some mistake?”

“Pooh! how could there be any mistake?”

“Didn’t you see any change in her?”

“No, only that she looked much more quiet than she used to.  Not so active, you know.  In her best days she was always excitable, and a little demonstrative; but now she seems to have sobered down, and is as quiet and well-bred as any of the others.”

“Was there not any change in her at all?”

“Not so much as I would have supposed; certainly not so much as there is in me.  But then I’ve been knocking about all over the world, and she’s been living a life of peace and calm, with the sweet consciousness of having triumphed over a hated husband, and possessing a handsome competency.  Now she mingles in the best society.  She associates with lords and ladies.  She enjoys life in England, while I am an exile.  No doubt she passes for a fine young widow.  No doubt, too, she has lots of admirers.  They aspire to her hand.  They write poetry to her.  They make love to her.  Confound her!”