“How long will you remain?”

“It is not certain; perhaps until the season closes.”

Mrs. Dexter made a motion to pass on.  Mr. Hendrickson raised his hat and bowed very respectfully; and thus the sudden interview ended.

Mr. Dexter had followed his wife to the door of the parlor, and stood looking at her as she retired along the portico.  This meeting with Hendrickson was therefore in full view.  A sudden paleness overspread his countenance; and from his convulsed lips there fell a bitter imprecation.

On reaching her apartments, Mrs. Dexter was so weak that she was forced to sit down upon the first chair she could obtain.  A dead pallor was in her face.

“Oh, give me strength—­self control—­motives to duty!”—­in weakness and fear her quivering heart cried upwards.

“Jessie!” How long she had been sitting thus Mrs. Dexter knew not.  She started.  It was the voice of her husband.

“Not ready yet, I see!” His tones were rough—­his manner excited.  “And the carriage has stood at the door for ten minutes.”

“I am ready!” she answered, starting up, and lifting her bonnet from the bed.

“It is no matter now.  The sun is setting, and I have ordered the carriage back to the stable.  You only consented to go on my account; and I am impatient under mere acquiescence.”

“You wrong me, Mr. Dexter,” said his wife, with (sic) unusal earnestness of manner.  “I am ready to go with you at all times; and I strive in all things to give you pleasure.  Did I hesitate a moment when you suddenly declared your wish to leave Saratoga for Newport?”

“No, of course you did not; for you were too glad of the opportunity to get here.”  There was a strange gleam in the eyes of Mr. Dexter as he said this; and his voice had in it an angry bitterness never before observed.

“What do you mean, sir?” demanded the outraged wife, turning upon her husband abruptly, and showing an aspect so stern and fierce, that the astonished man retreated a pace or two as if in fear.  Never before had he seen in that beautiful face the reflection of a spirit so wildly disturbed by passion.

“Speak out, Leon Dexter!  What do you mean?”

And her eyes rested on his with a glance as steady as an eagle’s.

“I saw your meeting a little while ago.”

Mr. Dexter rallied a little.

“What meeting?” There was no betraying sign in Mrs. Dexter’s face, nor the least faltering in her tones.

“Your meeting with him.”

“With whom?  Speak out plainly, sir!  I am in no mood for trifling, and in no condition for solving riddles.”

“With Paul Hendrickson.”  Dexter pronounced the name slowly, and with all the meaning emphasis he could throw into his voice.

“Well, sir, what of that?” Still neither eye nor voice faltered.

“Much!  You see that I understand you!”

“I see that you do not understand me,” was firmly answered.  “And now, sir, will you suffer me to demand an explanation of your language just now.  I want no evasion—­no faltering—­no holding back.  ‘Too glad of an opportunity to get here!’ That was the sentence.  Its meaning, sir?”