“Dear Lady Honoria Bingham,” it ran, “you must forgive me if I decline to answer the questions in your letter.  You will easily understand that between a desire to preserve a sister’s reputation and an incapacity (to be appreciated by every Christian) to speak other than the truth—­it is possible for a person to be placed in the most cruel of positions—­a position which I am sure will command even your sympathy, though under such circumstances I have little right to expect any from a wife believing herself to have been cruelly wronged.  Let me add that nothing short of the compulsion of a court of law will suffice to unseal my lips as to the details of the circumstances (which are, I trust, misunderstood) alluded to in the malicious anonymous letter of which you inclose a copy.”

That very evening, as the Fates would have it, Lady Honoria and her husband had a quarrel.  As usual, it was about Effie, for on most other subjects they preserved an armed neutrality.  Its details need not be entered into, but at last Geoffrey, who was in a sadly irritable condition of mind, fairly lost his temper.

“The fact is,” he said, “that you are not fit to look after the child.  You only think of yourself, Honoria.”

She turned on him with a dangerous look upon her cold and handsome face.

“Be careful what you say, Geoffrey.  It is you who are not fit to have charge of Effie.  Be careful lest I take her away from you altogether, as I can if I like.”

“What do you mean by that threat?” he asked.

“Do you want to know?  Then I will tell you.  I understand enough law to be aware that a wife can get a separation from an unfaithful husband, and what is more, can take away his children.”

“Again I ask what you mean,” said Geoffrey, turning cold with anger.

“I mean this, Geoffrey.  That Welsh girl is your mistress.  She passed the night of Whit-Sunday in your room, and was carried from it in your arms.”

“It is a lie,” he said; “she is nothing of the sort.  I do not know who gave you this information, but it is a slanderous lie, and somebody shall suffer for it.”

“Nobody will suffer for it, Geoffrey, because you will not dare to stir the matter up—­for the girl’s sake if not for your own.  Can you deny that you were seen carrying her in your arms from your room on Whit-Sunday night?  Can you deny that you are in love with her?”

“And supposing that I am in love with her, is it to be wondered at, seeing how you treat me and have treated me for years?” he answered furiously.  “It is utterly false to say that she is my mistress.”

“You have not answered my question,” said Lady Honoria with a smile of triumph.  “Were you seen carrying that woman in your arms and from your room at the dead of night?  Of course it meant nothing, nothing at all.  Who would dare to asperse the character of this perfect, lovely, and intellectual schoolmistress?  I am not jealous, Geoffrey——­”