A slow anger burned in the man. Only she was conscious of an unfamiliar and wonderful emotion. “Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said. He was almost paralyzed with nervousness and desire. Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. ‘I do not believe you. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage.
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