"Wouldn't I be justified in wringing her neck?" asked Dacres, after a
pause. "And what's worse," he continued, without waiting for an answer
to his question--"what's worse, her presence here in this unexpected
way has given me, _me_, mind you, a sense of guilt, while she is, of
course, immaculate. _I_, mind you--_I_, the injured husband, with the
scar on my head from a wound made by _her_ hand, and all the ghosts of
my ancestors howling curses over me at night for my desolated and
ruined home--_I_ am to be conscience-stricken in her presence, as if I
were a felon, while _she_, the really guilty one--the blight and
bitter destruction of my life--_she_ is to appear before me now as
injured, and must make her appearance here, standing by the side of
that sweet child-angel, and warning me away. Confound it all, man! Do
you mean to say that such a thing is to be borne?"

Dacres was now quite frantic; so Hawbury, with a sigh of perplexity,
lighted a fresh cigar, and thus took refuge from the helplessness of
his position. It was clearly a state of things in which advice was
utterly useless, and consolation impossible. What could he advise, or
what consolation could he offer? The child-angel was now out of his
friend's reach, and the worst fears of the lover were more than
realized.

"I told you I was afraid of this," continued Dacres. "I had a
suspicion that she was alive, and I firmly believe she'll outlive me
forty years; but I must say I never expected to see her in this way,
under such circumstances. And then to find her so infernally
beautiful! Confound her! she don't look over twenty-five. How the
mischief does she manage it? Oh, she's a deep one! But perhaps she's
changed. She seems so calm, and came into the room so gently, and