“Oh, Lady Laura!”

“It is very bad,—­but not so bad, I think, as the life I am now leading.  He has accused me—­, of what do you think?  He says that you are my lover!”

“He did not say that,—­in those words?”

“He said it in words which made me feel that I must part from him.”

“And how did you answer him?”

“I would not answer him at all.  If he had come to me like a man,—­not accusing me, but asking me,—­I would have told him everything.  And what was there to tell?  I should have broken my faith to you, in speaking of that scene at Loughlinter, but women always tell such stories to their husbands when their husbands are good to them, and true, and just.  And it is well that they should be told.  But to Mr. Kennedy I can tell nothing.  He does not believe my word.”

“Not believe you, Lady Laura?”

“No!  Because I did not blurt out to him all that story about your foolish duel,—­because I thought it best to keep my brother’s secret, as long as there was a secret to be kept, he told me that I had,—­lied to him!”

“What!—­with that word?”

“Yes,—­with that very word.  He is not particular about his words, when he thinks it necessary to express himself strongly.  And he has told me since that because of that he could never believe me again.  How is it possible that a woman should live with such a man?” But why did she come to him with this story,—­to him whom she had been accused of entertaining as a lover;—­to him who of all her friends was the last whom she should have chosen as the recipient for such a tale?  Phineas as he thought how he might best answer her, with what words he might try to comfort her, could not but ask himself this question.  “The moment that the word was out of his mouth,” she went on to say, “I resolved that I would tell you.  The accusation is against you as it is against me, and is equally false to both.  I have written to him, and there is my letter.”

“But you will see him again?”

“No;—­I will go to my father’s house.  I have already arranged it.  Mr. Kennedy has my letter by this time, and I go from hence home with my father.”

“Do you wish that I should read the letter?”

“Yes,—­certainly.  I wish that you should read it.  Should I ever meet him again, I shall tell him that you saw it.”

They were now standing close upon the river’s bank, at a corner of the grounds, and, though the voices of people sounded near to them, they were alone.  Phineas had no alternative but to read the letter, which was as follows:—­

After what you have said to me it is impossible that I should return to your house.  I shall meet my father at the Duke of Omnium’s, and have already asked him to give me an asylum.  It is my wish to remain wherever he may be, either in town or in the country.  Should I change my purpose in this, and change my residence, I will not fail to let you know where I go and what