"O, then you did know that there was some one?" exclaimed Lady Valeria, with crushing scorn. "You did know that there was an entanglement—or, in plain words, you knew that you were stealing another woman's lover."
"Lady Valeria, you have no right to say such a thing."
"I have every right. Yes, you knew well enough what you were doing, in spite of your provincial bringing up. Every woman is wise in these matters. An entanglement, you say. Do you know, girl, that this entanglement, of which you speak so flippantly, was a passionate all-absorbing love—a love that had lasted three years, that had braved all consequences, that had laughed at danger—a love that burns in every line of these letters? Read them; read them, girl, and see what your 'entanglement' means."
She had opened her reticule, and had taken out a packet of letters while she was speaking. She flung the packet on to a table near Hilda.
"Read them, Miss Heathcote. I suppose you know Mr. Grahame's handwriting. I suppose he has written to you."
"I can see that they are in Bothwell's hand," said Hilda, looking down at the bundle of letters, as if they had been a nest of scorpions; "but I decline to read letters that are not addressed to me."
"You are afraid to read them?"
"I will take it upon trust that they are love-letters. May I ask if they were written to you—General Harborough's wife?"
The calm and measured accents, the steady gaze of those honest eyes, the resolute attitude, the small well-balanced head proudly erect, the nervous hands clasped firmly on the back of a chair by which the girl was standing, surprised Lady Valeria, and with a far from pleasant surprise. She had expected Hilda to be more easily crushed. She had expected to see a love-sick girl sobbing at her feet, ready to surrender her sweetheart at the first attack. And instead of girlish weakness, she found a woman prepared to do battle for her love.
"The letters are addressed to me. I should much like you to read them, in order that you may understand the nature of Bothwell Grahame's 'entanglement'."
"I decline to read them. It is quite enough for me to know that he was in love with a married woman, and that she encouraged his love—she, the wife of a good and brave old man—she who, by the right of her noble birth, should have been prouder, truer, purer than women of meaner race. She stooped so low! I am sorry that you came here, Lady Valeria. I am sorry that we have ever met—very sorry that you have told me your secret."
"It is everybody's secret by this time. A woman in my position is surrounded by lynx-eyed friends, who read her inmost thoughts. Everybody knows that Bothwell Grahame loved
