whole laugh you have—any one could tell you had never lost yourself."
"Lost myself!" I repeat; "what is that?"
"Never been in love," he says, slowly, and with an odd hesitation in his voice, odd by reason of his being usually so self-contained, proud, and cold.
I turn away my head that he may not see how the colour goes out of my cheeks. I am glad he thinks me so safe and untouched. No woman should wear her heart upon her sleeve for every eye to look into. . . .
"Do people give up laughing when they fall in love?" I ask. "I should have thought it would be the very reason why they should be all the happier! My sisters never wore long faces when they were engaged. I do not think I ever saw any other lovers, unless indeed one can call Silvia and Sir George lovers."
"And are they not?"
"I don't know."
My thoughts go back to that moonlight night at Charteris four years ago, when a man and woman stood face to face, and wished each other a bitter, long farewell—ay, they were lovers; and a hot sharp pain runs through my heart that I know well enough is jealousy.
"Mr. Vasher," I say, stopping short, while the blood leaps into my face and mounts to my very brow, "I have something to tell you—something I ought to have told you long ago." He does not answer, but I see him draw in his breath and set his lips hard, and in his eyes there is a look of strong, eager expectation. "That night, at Charteris, when you had that interview with Silvia, I was hidden close to you, and saw and heard everything."
"Is that all?" he cries with a quick gesture of relief, and yet a certain shame in his face. "I thought you were going to tell
