knew
that her look was one of diffident, half-blushing pleasure. And then
came the sweetness of her accents, timorous, joyful, scarcely to be
recognised as the voice which an instant ago had trembled sadly in
self-reproach.

'But that seems to you so long ago, doesn't it? You can forgive me now.
Father has told me what happiness you have found, and I--I am so glad!'

Sidney drew back a step, involuntarily; the movement came of the shock
with which he heard her make such confident reference to the supposed
relations between himself and Jane Snowdon. He reddened--stood mute.
For a few seconds his mind was in the most painful whirl and conflict;
a hundred impressions, arguments, apprehensions, crowded upon him, each
with its puncturing torment. And Clara stood there waiting for his
reply, in the attitude of consummate grace.

'Of course I know what you speak of,' he said at length, with the
bluntness of confusion. 'But your father was mistaken. I don't know who
can have led him to believe that--It's a mistake, altogether.'

Sidney would not have believed that anyone could so completely rob him
of self-possession, least of all Clara Hewett. His face grew still more
heated. He was angry with he knew not whom, he knew not why--perhaps
with himself in the first instance.

'A mistake?' Clara murmured, under her breath. 'Oh, you mean people
have been too hasty in speaking about it. Do pardon me. I ought never
to have taken such a liberty--but I felt--'

She hesitated.

'It was no liberty at all. I dare say the mistake is natural enough to
those who know nothing of Miss Snowdon's circumstances. I myself,
however, have no right to talk about her. But what you have been told
is absolute error.'

Clara walked a few paces aside.

'Again I ask you to forgive me.' Her tones had not the same clearness
as hitherto. 'In any case, I had no right to approach such a subject in
speaking with you.'

'Let us put it aside,' said Sidney, mastering himself. 'We were just
agreeing that I should see your father, and make known your wish to
him.'

'Thank you. I shall tell him, when I go upstairs, that you were the
friend whom I had asked to come here. I felt it to be so uncertain
whether you would come.'

'I hope you couldn't seriously doubt it.'

'You teach me to tell the truth. No. I knew too well your kindness. I
knew that even to me--'

Sidney could converse no longer. He felt the need of being alone, to
put his thoughts in o