re was
a contest. Something of the old passion remained there, though it
was no more than the soreness it had caused. For half a moment she
thought whether it might not be as he would have it. But if so, how
could she again look any of her friends in the face and admit that
she had surrendered herself to so much unworthiness? How could she
tell Patience, who was beginning to be full of renewed hope for
Gregory? How could she confess such a weakness to her father? How
could she stand up before Mary Bonner? And was it possible that
she should really give herself, her whole life, and all her future
hopes, to one so weak and worthless as this man? "There is nothing to
forgive," she said, "but I certainly cannot forget."

"You know that I love you," he protested.

"Love me;--yes, with what sort of love? But it does not matter. There
need be no further talk about it. Your love to me can be nothing."

"Clarissa!"

"And to you it will be quite as little. Your heart will never suffer
much, Ralph. How long is it since you offered your hand to my cousin?
Only that you are just a boy playing at love, this would be an
insult." Then she saw her old friend through the window. "Mrs.
Brownlow," she said, "Mr. Newton is going, and I am ready for our
walk whenever you please."

"Think of it twice, Clarissa;--must this be the end of it?" pleaded
Ralph.

"As far as I am concerned it must be the end of it. When I get home I
shall probably find that you have already made an offer to Patience."
Then he got up, took his hat, and having shaken hands cordially with
Mrs. Brownlow through the window, went out to his hansom cab, which
was earning sixpence a quarter of an hour out on the road, while he
had been so absolutely wasting his quarter of an hour within the
house.

"Has he said anything, my dear?" asked Mrs. Brownlow.

"He has said a great deal."

"Well, my dear?"

"He is an empty, vain, inconstant man."

"Is he, Clarissa?"

"And yet he is so good-humoured, and so gay, and so pleasant, that I
do not see why he should not make a very good husband to some girl."

"What do you mean, Clarissa? You have not refused him?"

"I did not say he had offered;--did I?"

"But he has?"

"If he did,--then I refused him. He is good-natured; but he has no
more heart than a log of wood. Don't talk about it any more, dear
Mrs. Brownlow. I dare say we shall all be friends again before long,
and he'll almost forget everything that he said t