Did you come from Rome to tell me this, Mr. Egerton?” she said, bitterly. “No. And I see that I shall repent having told you,” said Jack. “Let us talk of something else.” “Not at all! Since you broached the subject, it shall be your penalty to go on with it as long as I choose.” “Are you so unused to the truth, Lady Breton, that even such harsh truths as these are acceptable?” “Perhaps.” She paused, playing with her fan; then, suddenly, flashing one of her superb looks at him; “How you despise me!” she said. “You think I cared nothing for—for him?” “I cannot think that if you had cared for him, you would have thrown him over.” “Ah—you know nothing of women!” “I believe” said Jack, very low, “I know too much of them.” “And you despise them all, do you not?” she cried. “Yet—I have a heart.” “My friend did not find it so,” said Jack, pitilessly. Her eyes flashed; & she bit her lip (the blood had fled from her whole face) before she could answer. “How do you know that you are not wronging me?” “If I am wronging you, why is my friend’s life cursed?” he exclaimed. “No, Lady Breton! The wrong is on your side, & when I think of him, & of what he might have been, I cannot help telling you so.” Her agitation had increased perceptibly, & she rose here, as if to find a vent for it in the sudden movement. Jack could not help thinking how her pallour altered her. There ran through his head, half unconsciously, the wonderful words that describe Beatrix Esmond when she finds her guilt discovered: “The roses had shuddered out of her cheeks; she looked quite old.” He waited for Georgie to speak. “What he might have been,” she repeated slowly. “What have I done? What have I done?” “You have very nearly broken his heart.” She gave a little cry, & put her hand against her breast. “Don’t! Don’t!” she said, wildly. “I did love him, I did care—I believe my heart is nearly broken too!” She tried to steady her voice, & went on hurriedly. “I was young & silly & ambitious. I fancied I didn’t care, but I did—did. I have suffered too, & the more bitterly because what you say is true. I have wronged him!” She sank down on a chair, hiding her face in her hands, & Jack, who had not expected this passionate outburst, was not a little appalled by what he had brought about. But it was too late now to undo it; Georgie was thoroughly shaken out [of] her habitual artificial composure. The mask had fallen off, & oh, how sadly, sadly human were the features behind it! “And you,” she went on, “are the first who has dared to tell me what I have felt so long! I could almost thank you—” She paused once more, & Jack knew that her tears were falling, though she screened her face with one lifted hand. “Instead of that,” he said, “you must forgive my frankness—my impertinence, rather—in speaking to you in this way.” “No—no. I think I feel better for it,” she almost whispered. “But one thing more. Does he—does he think of me as you do?” “Do not ask me,” said Jack, gently. “I think of you with nothing but pity.” “And he—he despises me? He thinks I do not care for him? Oh—it will break my heart. And yet,” she went on, with a moan, “what else have I deserved? Oh, my folly, my folly! But you believe I do love him? You see how wretched, how—” She did not notice, that, as she spoke, leaning toward Jack with her hand half outstretched, Lord Breton’s voice was sounding near the door; but Jack did. “Yes,” he said, composedly, taking up an album, “these photographs are charming. Have you seen the last of the Princess of Wales?” Georgie’s tact would ordinarily have exceeded his; but she had been carried far beyond external observances, & could only sit silent, with white, compressed lips as the gentleman entered.