tion even of Horace, feeling that Mrs. Damerel's
affection, however genuine, must needs be baleful. From this point her
part in the dialogue was slight.

'If any of Miss. French's relatives,' said the visitor presently,
'should accuse me to you, you will be able to contradict them. I am sure
I can depend upon you for that service?'

'I am not likely to see them; and I should have thought you would care
very little what was said about you by people of that kind.'

'I care little enough,' rejoined Mrs. Damerel, with a curl of the lips.
'It's Horace I am thinking of. These people will embitter him against
me, so long as they have any ground to go upon.'

'But haven't you let him know of that letter?'

Mrs. Damerel seemed to fall into abstraction, answered with a vague
'Yes,' and after surveying the room, said softly:

'So you must live here alone for another two or three years?'

'It isn't compulsory: it's only a condition.'

Another vague 'Yes.' Then:

'I do so wish Horace would come back and make his home here.'

'I'm afraid you have spoilt him for that,' said Nancy, with relief in
this piece of plain speaking.

Mrs. Damerel did not openly resent it. She looked a mild surprise, and
answered blandly:

'Then I must undo the mischief. You shall help me. When he has got over
this little trouble, he will see who are his true friends. Let us work
together for his good.'

Nancy was inclined, once more, to reproach herself, and listened with
patience whilst her relative continued talking in grave kindly tones.
Lest she should spoil the effect of these impressive remarks, Mrs.
Damerel then took leave. In shaking hands, she bent upon the girl a gaze
of affection, and, as she turned away, softly sighed.

Of what had passed in the recent interview with Beatrice French, Nancy
said nothing to her faithful companion. This burden of shame must be
borne by herself alone. It affected profoundly the courageous mood
which had promised to make her life tolerable; henceforth, she all but
abandoned the hope of gaining that end for which she had submitted to
so deep a humiliation. Through Beatrice, would not her secret, coloured
shamefully, become known to Luckworth Crewe, and to others? Already,
perchance, a growing scandal attached to her name. Fear had enabled
her to endure dishonour in the eyes of one woman, but at any moment the
disgrace might front her in an intolerable shape; then, regardless of
the cost, she would procl