"Where have you been this afternoon?" he asked gravely.

"To hear that awful man Naudheim," she answered. "Henry, I wish I'd never been. I wish to Heaven you'd never asked Bertrand Saton to Beauleys."

Rochester's face grew darker.

"I wish I'd wrung the fellow's neck the first day I saw him," he declared, bitterly. "But after all, Pauline, you don't take this sort of person seriously?"

"I wish I didn't," she answered.

"He's an infernal charlatan," Rochester declared. "I'm convinced of it, and I mean to expose him."

She shook her head.

"You can call him what you like," she said, "but there is Naudheim behind him. There is no one in Europe who would dare to call Naudheim a charlatan."

"He is a wonderful man, but he is mad," Rochester said.

"No, he is not mad," she said. "It is we who are mad, to listen a little, to think a little, to play a little with the thoughts he gives us."

"I know of Naudheim only by reputation," Rochester said. "And so far as regards Saton, nothing will convince me that he is not an impostor."

She sighed.

"There may be something of the charlatan in his methods," she said, "but there is something else. Henry, why can't we be content with the things that we know and see and feel?"

He smiled bitterly.

"I am," he answered. "I thank G.o.d that I have none of that insane desire for probing and dissecting nature to discover things which we are not fit yet to understand, if, even, they do exist. It's a sort of spiritual vivisection, Pauline, and it can bring nothing but disquiet and unhappiness. Grant for a moment that Naudheim, and that even this bounder Saton, are honest, what possible good can it do you or me to hang upon their lips, to become their disciples?"

"Oh, I don't know!" she answered. "Yet it's hideously fascinating, Henry--hideously! And the man himself--Bertrand Saton. I can't tell what there is about him. I only know----"

She broke off in the middle of her sentence. Rochester caught her by the wrist.

"Pauline," he said, "for G.o.d's sake, don't tell me that that fellow has dared to make love to you."

"I don't know," she answered. "Sometimes I hate the very sight of him.

Sometimes I feel almost as you do. And at others, well, I can't explain it. It isn't any use trying."

"Pauline," he said, "you see for yourself the state to which you have been reduced this afternoon. Tell me, is there happiness in being a.s.sociated with any science or any form of knowledge the study of which upsets you so completely? There are better things in life.

Forget this wretched little man, and his melodramatic talk."

"If only I could!" she murmured.

They sat side by side in silence. Strong man though he was, Rochester was struggling fiercely with the wave of pa.s.sionate anger which had swept in upon him. For years he had treated this woman as his dearest friend. The love which was a part of his life lay deep down in his heart, a thing with the seal of silence set upon it, zealously treasured, in its very voicelessness a splendid oblation to the man's chivalry. And now this unmentionable creature, this Frankenstein of his own creation, the boy whom he had pitchforked into life, had dared to be guilty of this unspeakable sacrilege. It was hard, indeed, for Rochester to maintain his self-control.

"Pauline," he said, "I cannot stand by and see your life wrecked. You are too sane, too reasonable a woman to become the prey of such a pitiful adventurer. Won't you listen to me for a moment?"

"Indeed I am listening," she faltered.

"Give yourself a chance," he begged. "Leave England this week--to-morrow, if you can. Go right away from here. You have friends in Rome. I heard your cousin ask you not long ago to pay her a visit at her villa on the Adriatic. Start to-morrow, and I promise that you will come back a sane woman. You will be able to laugh at Saton, to see through the fellow, and to realise what a tissue of shams he's built of. You will be able to feel a reasonable interest in anything Naudheim has to say. Just now you are unnerved, these men have frightened you. Believe me that your greatest and most effectual safety lies in flight."

A sudden hope lit up her face. She turned towards him eagerly. She was going to consent--he felt it, he was almost conscious of the words trembling upon her lips. Already his own personal regrets at her absence were beginning to cloud his joy. Then her whole expression changed. Something of the look settled upon her features which he had seen when first she had stopped the carriage. Her lips were parted, her eyes distended. She looked nervously around as though she were afraid that some one was following them.

"I cannot do that, Henry," she said. "In a way it would be a relief, but it is impossible. I cannot, indeed."

She led the way to the carriage. They walked in absolute silence for nearly a minute. He felt that he had lost a great part of his influence over her and he was bitter.

"Tell me why you almost consented," he asked, abruptly, "and then changed your mind? In your heart you must know that it is for your good."

"I only know," she answered, slowly, "that at first I longed to say yes, and now, when I come to think of it, I see that it is impossible."

"You are going to allow yourself, then, to be the prey of these morbid fancies? You are going to treat this creature as a human being of your own order? You are going to let him work upon your imagination?"

"It is no use," she said wearily. "For the present, I cannot talk any more about it. I do not understand myself at all."

They stood for a moment by the carriage.

"We shall meet to-night," he reminded her.

She gave him a doubtful little smile.

"You are really coming to the Wintertons?" she asked.

"I have promised," he answered. "Caroline has bribed me. I am going to take you in to dinner."

"Will you drive home with me now?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"I have another call to make," he said, a little grimly.

Saton was still in the half darkened library, sitting with his back turned to the light, and his eyes fixed with a curious stare into vacancy, when the door opened, and Rochester entered unannounced.

Saton rose at once to his feet, but the interrogative words died away upon his lips. Rochester's fair, sunburnt face was grim with angry purpose. He had the air of a man stirred to the very depths. He came only a little way into the room, and he took up his position with his back to the door.

"My young friend," he said, "it is not many hours since you and I came to an understanding of a sort. I am here to add a few words to it."

Saton said nothing. He stood immovable, waiting.

"Whatever your game in life may be," Rochester continued, "you can play it, for all I care, to the end. But there is one thing which I forbid. I have come here so that you shall understand that I forbid it. You can make fools of the whole world, you can have them kneeling at your feet to listen to your infernal nonsense--the whole world save one woman. I am ashamed to mention her name in your presence, but you know whom I mean."

Saton's lips seemed to move for a moment, but he still remained silent.

"Very well," Rochester said. "There shall be no excuse, no misunderstanding. The woman with whom I forbid you to have anything whatever to do, whom I order you to treat from this time forward as a stranger, is Pauline Marrabel."

Saton was still in no hurry to speak. He leaned a little forward. His eyes seemed to burn as though touched with some inward fire.

"By what right," he asked, "do you come here and dictate to me? You are not my father or my guardian. I do not recognize your right to speak to me as one having authority."

"It was I who turned you loose upon the world," Rochester answered. "I deserve hanging for it."