"Go; yes, you shall go," said Marston, striding toward the window. "I
will have no whispering or conspiring in my house: I have heard of your
confidences and consultations. Mrs. Marston, I meant to have done this
quietly," he continued, addressing his wife; "I meant to have given
Mademoiselle de Barras my opinion and her dismissal without your
assistance; but it seems you wish to interpose. You are sworn friends,
and never fail one another, of course, at a pinch. I take it for granted
that I owe your presence at our interview which I am resolved shall be,
as respects mademoiselle, a final one, to a message from that intriguing
young lady--eh?"

"I have had no message, Richard," said Mrs. Marston; "I don't
know--do tell me, for God's sake, what is all this about?" And as
the poor lady thus spoke, her overwrought feelings found vent in a
violent flood of tears.

"Yes, madame, that is the question. I have asked him frequently what is
all this anger, all these reproaches about; what have I done?" interposed
mademoiselle, with indignant vehemence, standing erect, and viewing
Marston with a flashing eye and a flushed cheek. "Yes, I am called
conspirator, meddler, intrigant. Ah, madame, it is intolerable."

"But what have I done, Richard?" urged the poor lady, stunned and
bewildered; "how have I offended you?"

"Yes, yes," continued the Frenchwoman, with angry volubility, "what has
she done that you call contumacy and disrespect? Yes, dear madame, there
is the question; and if he cannot answer, is it not most cruel to call me
conspirator, and spy, and intrigant, because I talk to my dear madame,
who is my only friend in this place?"