tremulous.

"It was nothing, mamma," said Gwendolen, thinking that her mother had
been moved in this way simply by finding her in distress. "It is all
over now."

But Mrs. Davilow had withdrawn her arms, and Gwendolen perceived a
letter in her hand.

"What is that letter?--worse news still?" she asked, with a touch of
bitterness.

"I don't know what you will think it, dear," said Mrs. Davilow, keeping
the letter in her hand. "You will hardly guess where it comes from."

"Don't ask me to guess anything," said Gwendolen, rather impatiently,
as if a bruise were being pressed.

"It is addressed to you, dear."

Gwendolen gave the slightest perceptible toss of the head.

"It comes from Diplow," said Mrs. Davilow, giving her the letter.

She knew Grandcourt's indistinct handwriting, and her mother was not
surprised to see her blush deeply; but watching her as she read, and
wondering much what was the purport of the letter, she saw the color
die out. Gwendolen's lips even were pale as she turned the open note
toward her mother. The words were few and formal:

Mr. Grandcourt presents his compliments to Miss Harleth, and begs to
know whether he may be permitted to call at Offendene tomorrow after
two and to see her alone. Mr. Grandcourt has just returned from
Leubronn, where he had hoped to find Miss Harleth.

Mrs. Davilow read, and then looked at her daughter inquiringly, leaving
the note in her hand. Gwendolen let it fall to the floor, and turned
away.

"It must be answered, darling," said Mrs. Davilow, timidly. "The man
waits."

Gwendolen sank on the settee, clasped her hands, and looked straight
before her, not at her mother. She had the expression of one who had
been startled by a sound and was listening to know what would come of
it. The sudden change of the situation was bewildering. A few minutes
before she was looking along an inescapable path of repulsive monotony,
with hopeless inward rebellion against the imperious lot which left her
no choice: and lo, now, a moment of choice was come. Yet--was it
triumph she felt most or terror? Impossible for Gwendolen not to feel
some triumph in a tribute to her power at a time when she was first
tasting the bitterness of insignificance: again she seemed to be
getting a sort of empire over her own life. But how to use it? Here
came the terror. Quick, quick, like pictures in a book beaten open with
a sense of hurry, came back vividly, yet in fragments, all that she