atience if Ralph should say anything very
special to her. But she had a right to be made love to if she liked
it;--and in this case she would like it. But when Ralph looked at
her, and asked her whether he might not do better than marry her West
Indian cousin, she had not a word with which to answer him. He smoked
on for some seconds in silence still looking at her, while she stood
over him blushing. Then he spoke again. "I think I might do a great
deal better." But still she had not a word for him.

"Ah;--I suppose I must be off," he said, jumping up on his legs, and
flinging his jacket over his arm. "Patience will be in soon."

"I expect her every minute."

"If I were to say,--something uncivil about Patience, I suppose you
wouldn't like it?"

"Certainly, I shouldn't like it."

"Only just to wish she were at,--Jericho?"

"Nonsense, Ralph."

"Yes; that would be nonsense. And the chances are, you know, that
you would be at Jericho with her. Dear, dear Clary,--you know I love
you." Then he put his right arm round her waist, pipe and all, and
kissed her.

She certainly had expected no such assault,--had not only not thought
of it, but had not known it to be among the possibilities that might
occur to her. She had never been so treated before. One other lover
she had had,--as we know; but by him she had been treated with the
deference due by an inferior to a superior being. It would have been
very nice if Ralph would have told her that he loved her,--but this
was not nice. That had been done which she would not dare to tell to
Patience,--which she could not have endured that Patience should have
seen. She was bound to resent it;--but how? She stood silent for a
moment, and then burst into tears. "You are not angry with me,
Clary?" he said.

"I am angry;--very angry. Go away. I will never speak to you again."

"You know how dearly I love you."

"I don't love you at all. You have insulted me, and I will never
forgive you. Go away." At this moment the step of Patience coming up
from the gate was heard upon the gravel. Clarissa's first thought
when she heard it was to hide her tears. Though the man had injured
her,--insulted her,--her very last resource would be to complain to
others of the injury or the insult. It must be hidden in her own
breast,--but remembered always. Forgotten it could not be,--nor, as
she thought at the moment, forgiven. But, above all, it must not
be repeated. As to any show of anger agai