“Lies can be acted as well as told.  Harry, tell me all at once.  Who is Florence Burton; who and what?” She knew it all, then, and things had settled themselves for him without the necessity of any action on his part.  It was odd enough that she should not have learned it before, but at any rate she knew it now.  And it was well that she should have been told—­only how was he to excuse himself for that embrace?  “At any rate speak to me,” she said, standing quite erect, and looking as a Juno might have looked.  “You will acknowledge at least that I have a right to ask the question.  Who is this Florence Burton?”

“She is the daughter of Mr. Burton of Stratton.”

“And is that all that you can tell me?  Come, Harry, be braver than that.  I was not such a coward once with you.  Are you engaged to marry her?”

“Yes, Lady Ongar, I am.”

“Then you have had your revenge on me, and now we are quits.”  So saying, she stepped back from the middle of the room, and sat herself down on her accustomed seat.  He was left there standing, and it seemed as though she intended to take no further notice of him.  He might go if he pleased, and there would be an end of it all.  The difficulty would be over, and he might at once write to Florence in what language he liked.  It would simply be a little episode in his life, and his escape would not have been arduous.

But he could not go from her in that way.  He could not bring himself to leave the room without some further word.  She had spoken of revenge.  Was it not incumbent on him to explain to her that there had been no revenge; that he had loved, and suffered, and forgiven without one thought of anger—­and that then he had unfortunately loved again?  Must he not find some words in which to tell her that she had been the light, and he simply the poor moth that had burned his wings.

“No, Lady Ongar,” said he, “there has been no revenge.”

“We will call is justice, if you please.  At any rate I do not mean to complain.”

“If you ever injured me—­” he began.

“I did injure you,” said she, sharply.

“If you ever injured me, I forgave you freely.”

“I did injure you—­” As she spoke she rose again from her seat, showing how impossible to her was that tranquillity which she had attempted to maintain.  “I did injure you, but the injury came to you early in life, and sat lightly on you.  Within a few months you had learned to love this young lady at the place you went to—­the first young lady you saw!  I had not done you much harm, Harry.  But that which you have done me cannot be undone.”

“Julia,” he said, coming up to her.

“No; not Julia.  When you were here before I asked you to call me so, hoping, longing, believing—­doing more, so much more than I could have done, but that I thought my love might now be of service to you.  You do not think that I had heard of this then.”