‘Yes; but one was much above the rest. He made you a rich woman.’

‘He made me—?’

Madame Merle appearing to see herself successful, she went on more triumphantly: ‘He imparted to you that extra lustre which was required to make you a brilliant match. At bottom it’s him you’ve to thank.’ She stopped; there was something in Isabel’s eyes.

‘I don’t understand you. It was my uncle’s money.’

‘Yes; it was your uncle’s money, but it was your cousin’s idea. He brought his father over to it. Ah, my dear, the sum was large!’

Isabel stood staring; she seemed to-day to live in a world illumined by lurid flashes. ‘I don’t know why you say such things. I don’t know what you know.’

‘I know nothing but what I’ve guessed. But I’ve guessed that.’

Isabel went to the door and, when she had opened it, stood a moment with her hand on the latch. Then she said—it was her only revenge: ‘I believed it was you I had to thank!’

Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she stood there in a kind of proud penance. ‘You’re very unhappy, I know. But I’m more so.’

‘Yes; I can believe that. I think I should like never to see you again.’

Madame Merle raised her eyes. ‘I shall go to America,’ she quietly remarked while Isabel passed out.