and her bright intellect, had called him to her, and told him that he
was her only friend. Of course he had promised his friendship. How could
he have failed to give such a promise to one whom he had loved so well?
But to what must such a promise lead, or rather to what must it not have
led had it not been for Florence Burton? She was young, free, and rich.
She made no pretence of regret for the husband she had lost, speaking of
him as though in truth she hardly regarded herself as his wife. And she
was the same Julia whom he had loved, who had loved him, who had jilted
him, and in regret for whom he had once resolved to lead a wretched,
lonely life! Of course she must expect that he would renew it
all--unless, indeed, she knew of his engagement. But if she knew it, why
had she not spoken of it?

And could it be that she had no friends; that everybody had deserted
her; that she was alone in the world? As he thought of it all, the whole
thing seemed to him to be too terrible for reality. What a tragedy was
that she had told him! He thought of the man's insolence to the woman
whom he had married and sworn to love, then of his cruelty, his
fiendish, hellish cruelty; and lastly of his terrible punishment. "I
stuck to him through it all," she had said to him; and then he
endeavored to picture to himself that bedside by which Julia Brabazon,
his Julia Brabazon, had remained firm, when hospital attendants had been
scared by the horrors they had witnessed, and the nerves of a strong
man, of a man paid for such work, had failed him!

The truth of her word throughout he never doubted; and, indeed, no man
or woman who heard her could have doubted. One hears stories told that
to oneself, the hearer, are manifestly false; and one hears stories as
to the truth or falsehood of which one is in doubt; and stories again
which seem to be partly true and partly untrue. But one also hears that