Her head drooped a little—­she was quite silent.

“I thought,”—­he went on, “when I saw you actually smoking, that something strange and unnatural had happened to you!  That you had become, in some pitiful way, a different woman to the one that walked with me, not so long ago, and showed me her old French damask roses blossoming in the border!”—­he paused an instant, his voice faltering a little,—­then he resumed, quietly and firmly—­“and that you had, against all nature’s best intentions for you, descended to the level of Lady Beaulyon—–­”

She interrupted him by a quick gesture—–­

“Eva Beaulyon is my friend, Mr. Walden!”

“No—­not your friend!”—­he said steadily—­“Forgive me!  You asked me to speak frankly.  She is a friend to none except those of her own particular class and type—–­”

“To which I also belong,”—­said Maryllia, with a sudden flash of returning rebellion—­“You know I do!”

“I know you do not!” replied Walden, with some heat—­“And I thank God for it!  I know you are no more of her class and type than the wood lily is like the rank and poisonous marsh weed!  Oh, child!—­why do you wrong yourself!  If I am too blunt and plain in what I say to you, let me cease speaking—­but if you ask me as your friend—­as your minister!”—­and he emphasised the word—­“to tell you honestly my opinion, have patience with my roughness!”

“You are not rough,” she murmured,—­and a little contraction in her throat warned her of the possible rising of tears—­“But you are scarcely tolerant!”

“I cannot be tolerant of the demoralisation of womanhood!”—­he said, passionately—­“I cannot look on with an easy smile when I see the sex that should be the saving purity of the world, deliberately sinking itself by its own free will and choice into the mire of the vulgarest social vice, and parting with every redeeming grace, modesty and virtue that once made it sacred and beautiful!  I am quite aware that there are many men who not only look on, but even encourage this world-wide debasement of women in order to bring them down on a par with themselves—­but I am not one of these.  I know that when women cease to be womanly, then the sorrows of the world, already heavy, will be doubled and trebled!  When men come to be ashamed of their mothers—­as many of them are to-day—­there will be but little hope of good for future generations!  And the fact that there are many women of title and position like your guest, Lady Beaulyon, who deliberately drag their husband’s honour through the dust and publicly glory in their own disgrace, does not make their crime the less, but rather the more criminal.  You know this as well as I do!  You are not of Lady Beaulyon’s class or type—­if you were, I should not waste one moment of my time in your presence!”

She gazed at him speechlessly.  And now from the drawing room came the sound of Cicely’s voice, clear, powerful, and as sweet as legends tell us the voices of the angels are—­