“It is not the truth.  Pardon, madam; full of trouble am I. And it was all irregular, and very wicked, and very cruel.  If regular and right it had been, then in secret it had not taken place.”

“Admit, Councillor, that then it had not taken place at all; or, at least, Richard would have had to wait until Katherine was of age.”

“So; and that would have been right.  Until then, if love had lasted, I would have said, ‘Their love is stronger than my dislike;’ and I would have been content.”

“Ah, sir, there was more to the question than that!  My nephew’s chances for life were very indifferent, and he desired to shield Katherine’s name with his own”—­

“Christus! What say you, madam?  Had Katherine no father?”

“Oh, be not so warm, Councillor!  A husband’s name is a far bigger shield than a father’s.  I assure you that the world forgives a married woman what it would not forgive an angel.  And I must tell you, also, that Dick’s very life depended on the contentment which he felt in his success.  It is the part of humanity to consider that.”

“Twice over deceived I have been then”—­

“In short, sir, there was no help for it.  Dick received a most unexpected favour of a year’s furlough two days ago.  It was important for his wounded lung that he should go at once to a warm climate.  ’The Dauntless’ was on the point of sailing for the West Indies.  To have bestowed our confidence on you, would have delayed or detained our patient, or sent him away without his wife.  It was my fault that Katherine had only five minutes given her.  Oh, sir, I know my own sex!  And, if you will take time to reflect, I am sure that you will be reasonable.”

“Without his wife!  His wife!  Without my consent?  No, she is not his wife.”

“Sir, you must excuse me if I do not honour your intelligence or your courtesy.  I have said ‘she is his wife.’  It is past a doubt that they are married.”

“I know not, I know not—­O my Katherine, my Katherine!”

“I pray you, sit down, Councillor.  You look faint and ill; and in faith I am very sorry that, to make two people happy, others must be made so wretched.”  She rose and filled a glass with wine, and offered it to Joris, who was the very image of mental suffering,—­all the fine colour gone out of his face, and his large blue eyes swimming in unshed tears.

“Drink, sir.  Upon my word, you are vastly foolish to grieve so.  I protest to you that Katherine is happy; and grieving will not restore your loss.”

“For that reason I grieve, madam.  Nothing can give me back my child.”

“Come, sir, every one has his calamity; and, upon my word, you are very fortunate to have one no greater than the marriage of your daughter to an agreeable man, of honourable profession and noble family.”

“Five minutes only!  How could the child think?  To take her away thus was cruel.  Many things a woman needs when she journeys.”