Gilbert looked scrutinisingly at Marian Holbrook as she stood before him
with the cold gray light of the sunless day full upon her face. He wanted
to read the story of her life in that beautiful face, if it were
possible. He wanted to know whether she was happy with the man who had
stolen her from him.

She was very pale, but that might be fairly attributed to the agitation
caused by his presence. Gilbert fancied that there was a careworn look in
her face, and that her beauty had faded a little since those peaceful
days at Lidford, when these two had wasted the summer hours in idle talk
under the walnut trees in the Captain's garden. She was dressed very
plainly in black. There was no coquettish knot of ribbon at her throat;
no girlish trinkets dangled at her waist--all those little graces and
embellishments of costume which seem natural to a woman whose life is
happy, were wanting in her toilet to-day; and slight as these indications
were, Gilbert did not overlook them.

Did he really wish her to be happy--happy with the rival he so fiercely
hated? He had said as much; and in saying so, he had believed that he was
speaking the truth. But he was only human; and it is just possible that,
tenderly as he still loved this girl, he may have been hardly capable of
taking pleasure in the thought of her happiness.

"I want you to tell me about your husband, Marian," he said after a
pause; "who and what he is."

"Why should I do that?" she asked, looking at him with a steady, almost
defiant, expression. "You have said that you will never forgive him. What
interest can you possibly feel in his affairs?"