The Story Continued by Marian Halcombe

surface-brutality of the words which her husband had just addressed to her. There was some lurking insult beneath them, of which I was wholly ignorant, but which had left the mark of its profanation so plainly on her face that even a stranger might have seen it. The Count, who was no stranger, saw it as distinctly as I did. When I left my chair to join Laura, I heard him whisper under his breath to Sir Percival, “You idiot!” Laura walked before me to the door as I advanced, and at the same time her husband spoke to her once more. “You positively refuse, then, to give me your signature?” he said, in the altered tone of a man who was conscious that he had let his own licence of language seriously injure him. “After what you have just said to me,” she replied firmly, “I refuse my signature until I have read every line in that parchment from the first word to the last. Come away, Marian, we have remained here long enough.” “One moment!” interposed the Count before Sir Percival could speak again⁠—“one moment, Lady Glyde, I implore you!” Laura would have left the room without noticing him, but I stopped her. “Don’t make an enemy of the Count!” I whispered. “Whatever you do, don’t make an enemy of the Count!” She yielded to me. I closed the door again, and we stood near it waiting. Sir Percival sat down at the table, with his