“And your wife?  Was that honourable towards her?" She smiles, but her smile is a sneer.  “After all, she would not care,” says she.  “She carried her point!  She has compelled you to raise her from the mud to the sky!”

Rylton draws back suddenly.  All at once recollection comes to him.  His wife!  Yes, Tita is his wife, and honour binds him to her.  He drops Mrs. Bethune’s hand.

“I have been quite honourable,” says he coldly.  “I arranged matters with her.  She knows—­she is content to know—­that——­”

“What?” Mrs. Bethune has felt the change in his manner ever since she mentioned Tita’s name.  “That you once loved me!”

“No,” frowning, “I have not told her that.”

“Ah!” cries she, with a sort of passionate relief, “I thank you for that, even though your love for me may now be dead.  I thank you for that; and as for your wife, what is she to you?”

“She is my wife!" returns he gloomily.  “I shall remember that—­always!”

“Ah! she will make you remember it,” cries Marian, with a queer laugh.  “I warn you of that!"

“You warn me!”

“Yes—­yes.”  She throws out her arms in the moonlight, and laughs again, with a great but cruel delight.  “You will see.  You don’t care for her, she doesn’t care for you, and you will see——­”

“Marian, take care!  I can hear nothing said against my wife, even by you.”

“You prefer to hear it, then, from others?” says Mrs. Bethune, leaning back against the railings that overlook the gardens beneath, with a strange smile upon her lips.

“I prefer to believe that there is nothing to hear”—­haughtily.

“You can prefer what you like,” says she, with a sudden burst of rage; “but hear you shall!”

She takes a step nearer him.

“I shall not,” says Rylton firmly, if gently.  “She is my wife.  I have made her that!  I shall remember it.”

“And she,” says Marian furiously, “what does she remember?  You may forget all old ties, if you will; but she—­does she forget?”

“Forget what?”

Mrs. Bethune laughs softly, sweetly, wildly.

“Are you blind?  Are you mad? Can you see nothing?" cries she, her soft, musical voice now a little harsh and strained.  “That cousin—­have you seen nothing there?”

“You are alluding to Hescott?”

“Yes—­to him, and—­Tita!”

“Tita?” His brow darkens.  “What are you going to say of her?”

“What you”—­deliberately—­“do not dare to say, although you know it—­that she is absolutely depraved!”

"Depraved!"

“There—­stand back!” She laughs, a strange laugh.  She has shaken herself free from him.  “Fancy your taking it like that!” says she.  She is laughing still, but panting; the pressure of his hands on her arms is still fresh.  “And have you not seen for yourself, then?  Is it not open to all the world to see?  Is no one talking but me? Why, her flirtation with her cousin is common talk.”