“I didn’t know,” said Montague.  “But I never dreamed—­”

“Why,” exclaimed Mrs. Winnie, “their mail is full of blue and gold monogram stationery!  I’ve known guests to sit down and write gossip about their hostesses in their own homes.  Oh, you’ve no idea of people’s vileness!”

“I had some idea,” said Montague, after a pause.—­“That was why I wished to protect you.”

“I don’t wish to be protected!” she cried, vehemently.  “I’ll not give them the satisfaction.  They wish to make me give you up, and I’ll not do it, for anything they can say!”

Montague sat with knitted brows, gazing into the fire.  “When I read that paragraph,” he said slowly.  “I could not bear to think of the unhappiness it might cause you.  I thought of how much it might disturb your husband—­”

“My husband!” echoed Mrs. Winnie.

There was a hard tone in her voice, as she went on.  “He will fix it up with them,” she said,—­“that’s his way.  There will be nothing more published, you can feel sure of that.”

Montague sat in silence.  That was not the reply he had expected, and it rather disconcerted him.

“If that were all—­” he said, with hesitation.  “But I could not know.  I thought that the paragraph might disturb him for another reason—­that it might be a cause of unhappiness between you and him—­”

There was a pause.  “You don’t understand,” said Mrs. Winnie, at last.

Without turning his head he could see her hands, as they lay upon her knees.  She was moving them nervously.  “You don’t understand,” she repeated.

When she began to’ speak again, it was in a low, trembling voice.  “I must tell you,” she said; “I have felt sure that you did not know.”

There was another pause.  She hesitated, and her hands trembled; then suddenly she’hurried on.—­“I wanted you to know.  I do not love my husband.  I am not bound to him.  He has nothing to say in my affairs.”

Montague sat rigid, turned to stone.  He was half dazed by the words.  He could feel Mrs. Winnie’s gaze fixed upon him; and he could feel the hot flush that spread over her throat and cheeks.

“It—­it was not fair for you not to know,” she whispered.  And her voice died away, and there was again a silence.  Montague was dumb.

“Why don’t you say something?” she panted, at last; and he caught the note of anguish in her voice.  Then he turned and stared at her, and saw her tightly clenched hands, and the quivering of her lips.

He was shocked quite beyond speech.  And he saw her bosom heaving quickly, and saw the tears start into her eyes.  Suddenly she sank down, and covered her face with her hands and broke into frantic sobbing.

“Mrs. Winnie!” he cried; and started to his feet.

Her outburst continued.  He saw that she was shuddering violently.  “Then you don’t love me!” she wailed.

He stood trembling and utterly bewildered.  “I’m so sorry!” he whispered.  “Oh, Mrs. Winnie—­I had no idea—­”