“Yes, it happened before he made me write to father for so much money.  The vicar was ill and was obliged to go away for six months.  The clergyman who came to take his place was a young man.  He was kind and gentle, and wanted to help people.  His mother was with him and she was like him.  They loved each other, and they were quite poor.  His name was Ffolliott.  I liked to hear him preach.  He said things that comforted me.  Nigel found out that he comforted me, and—­when he called here, he was more polite to him than he had ever been to Mr. Brent.  He seemed almost as if he liked him.  He actually asked him to dinner two or three times.  After dinner, he would go out of the room and leave us together.  Oh, Betty!” clinging to her hands, “I was so wretched then, that sometimes I thought I was going out of my mind.  I think I looked wild.  I used to kneel down and try to pray, and I could not.”

“Yes, yes,” said Betty.

“I used to feel that if I could only have one friend, just one, I could bear it better.  Once I said something like that to Nigel.  He only shrugged his shoulders and sneered when I said it.  But afterwards I knew he had remembered.  One evening, when he had asked Mr. Ffolliott to dinner, he led him to talk about religion.  Oh, Betty!  It made my blood turn cold when he began.  I knew he was doing it for some wicked reason.  I knew the look in his eyes and the awful, agreeable smile on his mouth.  When he said at last, ’If you could help my poor wife to find comfort in such things,’ I began to see.  I could not explain to anyone how he did it, but with just a sentence, dropped here and there, he seemed to tell the whole story of a silly, selfish, American girl, thwarted in her vulgar little ambitions, and posing as a martyr, because she could not have her own way in everything.  He said once, quite casually, ’I’m afraid American women are rather spoiled.’  And then he said, in the same tolerant way—­’A poor man is a disappointment to an American girl.  America does not believe in rank combined with lack of fortune.’  I dared not defend myself.  I am not clever enough to think of the right things to say.  He meant Mr. Ffolliott to understand that I had married him because I thought he was grand and rich, and that I was a disappointed little spiteful shrew.  I tried to act as if he was not hurting me, but my hands trembled, and a lump kept rising in my throat.  When we returned to the drawing-room, and at last he left us together, I was praying and praying that I might be able to keep from breaking down.”

She stopped and swallowed hard.  Betty held her hands firmly until she went on.

“For a few minutes, I sat still, and tried to think of some new subject—­something about the church or the village.  But I could not begin to speak because of the lump in my throat.  And then, suddenly, but quietly, Mr. Ffolliott got up.  And though I dared not lift my eyes, I knew he was standing before the fire, quite near me.  And, oh! what do you think he said, as low and gently as if his voice was a woman’s.  I did not know that people ever said such things now, or even thought them.  But never, never shall I forget that strange minute.  He said just this: