all at Sir Oliver. At length she spoke.

"I am not skilled in reading men," she said in a sad, small voice.
"How should I be, that am but a maid who has led a cloistered life. I
was told of you that you were violent and passionate, a man of bitter
enmities, easily stirred to hatreds, cruel and ruthless in the
persecution of them."

"You, too, have been listening to Sir John," he muttered, and laughed
shortly.

"All this was I told," she pursued as if he had not spoken, "and all
did I refuse to believe because my heart was given to you. Yet...yet
of what have you made proof to-day?"

"Of forbearance," said he shortly.

"Forbearance?" she echoed, and her lips writhed in a smile of weary
irony. "Surely you mock me!"

He set himself to explain.

"I have told you what Sir John had done. I have told you that the
greater part of it--and matter all that touched my honour--I know Sir
John to have done long since. Yet I suffered it in silence and
contempt. Was that to show myself easily stirred to ruthlessness?
What was it but forbearance? When, however, he carries his petty
huckster's rancour so far as to seek to choke for me my source of
happiness in life and sends your brother to affront me, I am still so
forbearing that I recognize your brother to be no more than a tool and