Emma pressed her Tony’s unresponsive hand, feeling strangely that her friend ebbed from her.

‘Has he . . . to mislead him?’ she said, colouring at the breach in the question.

‘Proofs?  He has the proofs he supposes.’

‘Not to justify suspicion?’

‘He broke open my desk and took my letters.’

‘Horrible!  But the letters?’ Emma shook with a nervous revulsion.

‘You might read them.’

‘Basest of men!  That is the unpardonable cowardice!’, exclaimed Emma.

‘The world will read them, dear,’ said Diana, and struck herself to ice.  She broke from the bitter frigidity in fury.  ’They are letters—­none very long—­sometimes two short sentences—­he wrote at any spare moment.  On my honour, as a woman, I feel for him most.  The letters—­I would bear any accusation rather than that exposure.  Letters of a man of his age to a young woman he rates too highly!

The world reads them.  Do you hear it saying it could have excused her for that fiddle-faddle with a younger—­a young lover?  And had I thought of a lover! . . .  I had no thought of loving or being loved.  I confess I was flattered.  To you, Emma, I will confess . . . .  You see the public ridicule!—­and half his age, he and I would have appeared a romantic couple!  Confess, I said.  Well, dear, the stake is lighted for a trial of its effect on me.  It is this:  he was never a dishonourable friend; but men appear to be capable of friendship with women only for as long as we keep out of pulling distance of that line where friendship ceases.  They may step on it; we must hold back a league.  I have learnt it.  You will judge whether he disrespects me.  As for him, he is a man; at his worst, not one of the worst; at his best, better than very many.  There, now, Emma, you have me stripped and burning; there is my full confession.  Except for this—­yes, one thing further—­that I do rage at the ridicule, and could choose, but for you, to have given the world cause to revile me, or think me romantic.  Something or somebody to suffer for would really be agreeable.  It is a singular fact, I have not known what this love is, that they talk about.  And behold me marched into Smithfield!—­society’s heretic, if you please.  I must own I think it hard.’

Emma chafed her cold hand softly.

‘It is hard; I understand it,’ she murmured.  ’And is your Sunday visit to us in the list of offences?’

‘An item.’

‘You gave me a happy day.’

‘Then it counts for me in heaven.’

‘He set spies on you?’

‘So we may presume.’

Emma went through a sphere of tenuious reflections in a flash.

’He will rue it.  Perhaps now . . . he may now be regretting his wretched frenzy.  And Tony could pardon; she has the power of pardoning in her heart.’

’Oh! certainly, dear.  But tell me why it is you speak to-night rather unlike the sedate, philosophical Emma; in a tone-well, tolerably sentimental?’