She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. But I know very well that that word will never be spoken. . ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. You might trust me with the Chevalier himself,—I'd never betray him. But a far greater affliction was in store for her. She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house.
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