a suspicion which till
then had never entered her mind.

'Of course, you didn't let him see you?'

'Of course not.'.

'All right. Don't suppose I wanted to insult you. I took it for granted
you were married. Of course it happened before your father's death, and
his awkward will obliged you to keep it dark?'

Again Nancy was smitten with fear. Deeming Miss. French an unscrupulous
enemy, she felt that to confess marriage was to abandon every hope.
Pride appealed to her courage, bade her, here and now, have done
with the ignoble fraud; but fear proved stronger. She could not face
exposure, and all that must follow.

She spoke coldly, but with down-dropt eyes.

'I am not married.'

The words cost her little effort. Practically, she had uttered them
before; her overbold replies were an admission of what, from the first,
she supposed Beatrice to charge her with--not secret wedlock, but secret
shame. Beatrice, however, had adopted that line of suggestion merely
from policy, hoping to sting the proud girl into avowal of a legitimate
union; she heard the contrary declaration with fresh surprise.

'I should never have believed it of Miss. Lord,' was her half ingenuous,
half sly comment.

Nancy, beginning to realise what she had done, sat with head bent,
speechless.

'Don't distress yourself,' continued the other. 'Not a soul will hear of
it from me. If you like to tell me more, you can do it quite safely; I'm
no blabber, and I'm not a rascal. I should never have troubled to make
inquiries about you, down yonder, if it hadn't been that I suspected
Crewe. That's a confession, you know; take it in return for yours.'

Nancy was tongue-tied. A full sense of her humiliation had burst upon
her. She, who always condescended to Miss. French, now lay smirched
before her feet, an object of vulgar contempt.

'What does it matter?' went on Beatrice genially. 'You've got over the
worst, and very cleverly. Are you going to marry him when you come in
for your money?'

'Perhaps--I don't know--'

She faltered, no longer able to mask in impudence, and hardly
restraining tears. Beatrice ceased to doubt, and could only wonder with
amusement.

'Why shouldn't we be good friends, Nancy? I tell you, I am no rascal.
I never thought of making anything out of your secret--not I. If it had
been Crewe, marriage or no marriage--well, I might have shown my temper.
I believe I have a pretty rough side to my tongue; but I'm a good enough
sor