“And you had not gone after him?”

“No; that I swear,” passionately returned Afy.  “Make myself a companion of my father’s murderer!  If Mr. Calcraft, the hangman, finished off a few of those West Lynne scandalmongers, it might be a warning to the others.  I said so to Mr. Carlyle.

“To Mr. Carlyle?” repeated Lady Isabel, hardly conscious that she did repeat it.

“He laughed, I remember, and said that would not stop the scandal.  The only one who did not misjudge me was himself; he did not believe that I was with Richard Hare, but he was ever noble-judging was Mr. Carlyle.”

“I suppose you were in a situation?”

Afy coughed.

“To be sure.  More than one.  I lived as companion with an old lady, who so valued me that she left me a handsome legacy in her will.  I lived two years with the Countess of Mount Severn.”

“With the Countess of Mount Severn!” echoed Lady Isabel, surprised into the remark.  “Why, she—­she—­was related to Mr. Carlyle’s wife.  At least Lord Mount Severn was.”

“Of course; everybody knows that.  I was living there at the time the business happened.  Didn’t the countess pull Lady Isabel to pieces!  She and Miss Levison used to sit, cant, cant all day over it.  Oh, I assure you I know all about it, just as much as Joyce did.  Have you got that headache, that you are leaning on your hand?”

“Headache and heartache both,” she might have answered.

Miss Afy resumed.

“So, after the flattering compliment West Lynne had paid to me, you may judge I was in no hurry to go back to it, Madame Vine.  And if I had not found that Mrs. Latimer’s promised to be an excellent place, I should have left it, rather than be marshaled there.  But I have lived it down; I should like to hear any of them fibbing against me now.  Do you know that blessed Miss Corny?”

“I have seen her.”

“She shakes her head and makes eyes at me still.  But so she would at an angel; a cross-grained old cockatoo!”

“Is she still at East Lynne?”

“Not she, indeed.  There would be drawn battles between her and Mrs. Carlyle, if she were.”

A dart, as of an ice-bolt, seemed to arrest the blood in Lady Isabel’s veins.

“Mrs. Carlyle,” she faltered.  “Who is Mrs. Carlyle?”

“Mr. Carlyle’s wife—­who should she be?”

The rushing blood leaped on now fast and fiery.

“I did not know he had married again.”

“He has been married now—­oh, getting on for fifteen months; a twelvemonth last June.  I went to the church to see them married.  Wasn’t there a cram!  She looked beautiful that day.”

Lady Isabel laid her hand upon her breast.  But for that delectable “loose jacket,” Afy might have detected her bosom rise and fall.  She steadied her voice sufficiently to speak.

“Did he marry Barbara Hare?”