"I was thinking about you last night," she abruptly resumed. "You are a
gentle little creature--but I have seen you show some spirit, when your
aunt's cold-blooded insolence roused you. Do you know what I would do,
if I were in your place? _I_ wouldn't wait tamely till he came back to
me--I would go to him. Carmina! Carmina! leave this horrible house!" She
stopped, close by the sofa. "Let me look at you. Ha! I believe you have
thought of it yourself?"

"I have thought of it."

"What did I say? You poor little prisoner, you _have_ the right spirit
in you! I wish I could give you some of my strength." The half-mocking
tone in which she spoke, suddenly failed her. Her piercing eyes grew
dim; the hard lines in her face softened. She dropped on her knees, and
wound her lithe arms round Carmina, and kissed her. "You sweet child!"
she said--and burst passionately into tears.

Even then, the woman's fiercely self-dependent nature asserted itself.
She pushed Carmina back on the sofa. "Don't look at me! don't speak to
me!" she gasped. "Leave me to get over it."

She stifled the sobs that broke from her. Still on her knees, she looked
up, shuddering. A ghastly smile distorted her lips. "Ah, what fools we
are!" she said. "Where is that lavender water, my dear--your favourite
remedy for a burning head?" She found the bottle before Carmina could
help her, and soaked her handkerchief in the lavender water, and tied it
round her head. "Yes," she went on, as if they had been gossiping on the
most commonplace subjects, "I think you're right: this is the best of
all perfumes." She looked at the clock. "The children's dinner will be
ready in ten minutes. I must, and will, say what I have to say to
you. It may be the last poor return I can make, Carmina, for all your
kindness."

She returned to her chair.

"I can't help it if I frighten you," she resumed; "I must tell you
plainly that I don't like the prospect. In the first place, the sooner
we two are parted--oh, only for a while!--the better for you. After
what I went through, last night--no, I am not going to enter into any
particulars; I am only going to repeat, what I have said already--don't
trust me. I mean it, Carmina! Your generous nature shall not mislead
you, if _I_ can help it. When you are a happy married woman--when _he_
is farther removed from me than he is even now--remember your ugly,
ill-tempered friend, and let me come to you. Enough of this! I have
other misgiving