"No, not friends."
"Ah, you wished it, but she would not have it. I can see it in your face. O Frank, how could you humble yourself to such a woman? How could you? To hold out your hand to her and to be refused! Quelle dégradation! See how she has treated you—she, who is not worthy to be the wife of any honest man."
The color sprang to Onslow's pale cheeks. It was one thing to know his wife's faults, and it was another to hear about them.
"That is an old story," he said curtly. "We may let that drop."
"An old story? Why, she was with De Mürger last week in London."
"Fenella was?"
"Yes, I saw them with my own eyes riding together in the Row."
Lord Francis started as if he had been stung. "Come here!" he said. There was a garden bench in a little recess, and he threw himself down upon it. Lucille de Vigny seated herself beside him, and a triumphant smile played over her dark and beautiful face as she marked with a sidelong glance the anger and chagrin which convulsed her companion's features.
"Is this true?" he cried.
"I tell you, Frank, that I saw them with my own eyes. It is not my custom to say what is not true."
