think of me. For my sake remain here, and take the rest that you
need. I will be a tyrant, Stella, for the first time; I won't let

you go back."
She roused herself, and tried to smile--and hid the sad result

from him in a kiss. "I do feel the anxiety and fatigue," she
said. "But my mother is really improving; and, if it only

continues, the blessed sense of relief will make me strong
again." She paused, and roused all her courage, in anticipation

of the next words--so trivial and so terrible--that must, sooner
or later, be pronounced. "You have a visitor?" she said.

"Did you see him at the window? A really delightful man--I know
you will like him. Under any other circumstances, I should have

introduced him. You are not well enough to see strangers today."
She was too determined to prevent Winterfield from ever entering

the house again to shrink from the meeting. "I am not so ill as
you think, Lewis," she said, bravely. "When you go to your new

friend, I will go with you. I am a little tired--that's all."
Romayne looked at her anxiously. "Let me get you a glass of

wine," he said.
She consented--she really felt the need of it. As he turned away

to ring the bell, she put the question which had been in her mind
from the moment when she had seen Winterfield.

"How did you become acquainted with this gentleman?"
"Through Father Benwell."

She was not surprised by the answer--her suspicion of the priest
had remained in her mind from the night of Lady Loring's ball.

The future of her married life depended on her capacity to check
the growing intimacy between the two men. In that conviction she

found the courage to face Winterfield.
How should she meet him? The impulse of the moment pointed to the

shortest way out of the dreadful position in which she was
placed--it was to treat him like a stranger. She drank her glass

of wine, and took Romayne's arm. "We mustn't keep your friend
waiting any longer," she resumed. "Come!"

As they crossed the hall, she looked suspiciously toward the
house door. Had he taken the opportunity of leaving the villa? At

any other time she would have remembered that the plainest laws
of good breeding compelled him to wait for Romayne's return. His

own knowledge of the world would tell him that an act of gross
rudeness, committed by a well-bred man, would inevitably excite

suspicion of some unworthymotive--and might, perhaps, connect
that motive with her unexpected appearance at the house. Romayne

opened the door, and they entered the room together.
"Mr. Winterfield, let me introduce you to Mrs. Romayne." They

bowed to each other; they spoke the conventional words proper to
the occasion--but the effort that it cost them showed itself.

Romayne perceived an unusualformality" target="_blank" title="n.形式；礼仪；拘谨">formality in his wife's manner, and
a strange disappearance of Winterfield's easy grace of address.

Was he one of the few men, in these days, who are shy in the
presence of women? And was the change in Stella attributable,

perhaps, to the state of her health? The explanation might, in
either case, be the right one. He tried to set them at their

ease.
"Mr. Winterfield is so pleased with the pictures, that he means

to come and see them again," he said to his wife. "And one of his
favorites happens to be your favorite, too."

She tried to look at Winterfield, but her eyes sank. She could
turn toward him, and that was all. "Is it the sea-piece in the

study?" she said to him faintly.
"Yes," he answered, with formalpoliteness; "it seems to me to be

one of the painter's finest works."
Romayne looked at him in unconcealed wonder. To what flat

commonplace Winterfield's livelyenthusiasm had sunk in Stella's
presence! She perceived that some unfavorable impression had been

produced on her husband, and interposed with a timely suggestion.
Her motive was not only to divert Romayne's attention from

Winterfield, but to give him a reason for leaving the room.
"The little water-color drawing in my bedroom is by the same

artist," she said. "Mr. Winterfield might like to see it. If you
will ring the bell, Lewis, I will send my maid for it."

Romayne had never allowed the servants to touch his works of art,
since the day when a zealous housemaid had tried to wash one of

his plaster casts. He made the reply which his wife had
anticipated.

"No! no!" he said. "I will fetch the drawing myself." He turned
gayly to Winterfield. "Prepare yourself for another work that you

would like to kiss." He smiled, and left the room.
The instant the door was closed, Stella approached Winterfield.

Her beautiful face became distorted by a mingled expression of
rage and contempt. She spoke to him in a fierce peremptory

whisper.
"Have you any consideration for me left?" His look at her, as she

put that question, revealed the most complete contrast between
his face and hers. Compassionate sorrow was in his eyes, tender

forbearance and respect spoke in his tones, as he answered her.
"I have more than consideration for you, Stella--"

She angrily interrupted him. "How dare you call me by my
Christian name?"

He remonstrated, with a gentleness that might have touched the
heart of any woman. "Do you still refuse to believe that I never

deceived you? Has time not softened your heart to me yet?"
She was more contemptuous toward him than ever. "Spare me your

protestations," she said; "I heard enough of them two years
since. Will you do what I ask of you?"

"You know that I will."
"Put an end to your acquaintance with my husband. Put an end to

it," she repeated vehemently, "from this day, at once and
forever! Can I trust you to do it?"

"Do you think I would have entered this house if I had known he
was your husband?" He made that reply with a sudden change in

him--with a rising color and in firm tones of indignation. In a
moment more, his voice softened again, and his kind blue eyes

rested on her sadly and devotedly. "You may trust me to do more
than you ask," he resumed. "You have made a mistake."

"What mistake?"
"When Mr. Romayne introduced us, you met me like a stranger--and

you left me no choice but to do as you did."
"I wish you to be a stranger."

Her sharpest replies made no change in his manner. He spoke as
kindly and as patiently as ever.

"You forget that you and your mother were my guests at Beaupark,
two years ago--"

Stella understood what he meant--and more. In an instant she
remembered that Father Benwell had been at Beaupark House. Had he

heard of the visit? She clasped her hands in speechless terror.
Winterfield gently reassured her. "You must not be frightened,"

he said. "It is in the last degree unlikely that Mr. Romayne will
ever find out that you were at my house. If he does--and if you

deny it--I will do for you what I would do for no other human
creature; I will deny it too. You are safe from discovery. Be

happy--and forget me."
For the first time she showed signs of relenting--she turned her

head away, and sighed. Although her mind was full of the serious
necessity of warning him against Father Benwell, she had not even

command enough over her own voice to ask how he had become
acquainted with the priest. His manly devotion, the perfect and

pathetic sincerity of his respect, pleaded with her, in spite of
herself. For a moment she paused to recover her composure. In

that moment Romayne returned to them with the drawing in his
hand.

"There!" he said. "It's nothing, this time, but some children
gathering flowers on the outskirts of a wood. What do you think

of it?"
"What I thought of the larger work," Winterfield answered. "I