te sure that you were what I
thought you, that's all.'

'I don't think, on the whole, you have any reason to complain of
ill-faith on my part. I secured you the opportunities that are so hard
to find.'

'Yes, you did. We don't owe each other anything--that's one comfort.
I'll just say that you needn't have any fear I shall trouble you in
future; I know that's what you're chiefly thinking about.'

'You misjudge me; but that can't be helped. I wish very much it were in
my power to be of use to you.'

'Thank you.'

On that last note of irony they parted. True enough, in one sense, that
there remained debt on neither side. But Clara, for all the fierce
ambition which had brought her life to this point, could not divest
herself of a woman's instincts. That simple fact explained various
inconsistencies in her behaviour to Scawthorne since she had made
herself independent of him; it explained also why this final interview
became the bitterest charge her memory preserved against him.

Her existence for some three weeks kept so gloomy a monotony that it
was impossible she should endure it much longer. The little room which
she shared at night with Annie and Amy was her cell throughout the day.
Of necessity she had made the acquaintance of Mrs. Eagles, but they
scarcely saw more of each other than if they had lived in different
tenements on the same staircase; she had offered to undertake a share
of the housework, but her father knew that everything of the kind was
distasteful to her, and Mrs. Eagles continued to assist Amy as
hitherto. To save trouble, she came into the middle room for her meals,
at these times always keeping as much of her face as possible hidden.
The children could not overcome a repulsion, a fear, excited by her
veil and the muteness she preserved in their presence; several nights
passed before little Annie got to sleep with any comfort. Only with her
father did Clara hold converse; in the evening he always sat alone with
her for an hour. She went out perhaps every third day, after dark,
stealing silently down the long staircase, and walking rapidly until
she had escaped the neighbourhood--like John Hewett when formerly he
wandered forth in search of her. Her strength was slight; after
half-an-hour's absence she came back so wearied that the ascent of
stairs cost her much suffering.

The economy prevailing in to-day's architecture takes good care that no
depressing circumstance shall be absent from t