"But you did not fail. You have been a real friend, and you will always be so, dear Rachel. And when Hugh and I are married you will often come and stay with us."

A great compassion flooded Rachel's heart for this poor creature, with its house of cards. Then her face became fixed as a surgeon's who gets out his knife.

"I think I ought to tell you—you ought to know—that I care for Mr. Scarlett."

"He is mine," said Lady Newhaven instantly, her blue eyes dilating.

"He is unmarried, and I am unmarried," said Rachel, hoarsely. "I don't know how it came about, but I have gradually become attached to him."

"He is not unmarried. It is false. He is my husband in the sight of Heaven. I have always, through everything, looked upon him as such."

This seemed more probable than that Heaven had so regarded him. Rachel did not answer. She had confided her love to no one, not even to Hester; and to speak of it to Lady Newhaven had been like tearing the words out of herself with hot pincers.

"I knew he was poor, but I did, not know he was as poor as that," said Lady Newhaven, after a pause.

Rachel got up suddenly, and moved away to the fireplace. She felt it would be horribly easy to strangle that voice.

"And you came down here pretending to be my friend, while all the time you were stealing his heart from me."

Still Rachel did not answer. Her forehead was pressed against the mantel-shelf. She prayed urgently that she might stay upon the hearth-rug, that whatever happened she might not go near the sofa.

"And you think he is in love with you?"

"I do."

"Are you not rather credulous? But I suppose he has told you over and over again that he cares for you yourself alone. Is the wedding-day fixed?"

"No, he has not asked me to marry him yet. I wanted to tell you before it happened."

Lady Newhaven threw herself back on the sofa. She laughed softly. A little mirror hung tilted at an angle which allowed her to see herself as she lay. She saw a very beautiful woman, and then she turned and looked at Rachel, who had no beauty, as she understood it, and laughed again.

"My poor dear," she said, in a voice that made Rachel wince, "Hugh is no better than the worst. He has made love to you pour passer le temps, and you have taken him seriously, like the dear, simple woman you are. But he will never marry you. You own he has not proposed? Of course not. Men are like that. It is hateful of them, but they will do it. They are the vainest creatures in the world. Don't you see that the reason he has not asked you is because he knew that Edward had to—and that I should soon be free to marry him. And, Rachel, you need not feel the least little bit humiliated, for I shan't tell a soul, and, after all, he loved me first."