ho can completely hold her tongue
concerning her own secrets?

Against all the long category of female virtues, as advantageously
displayed in contradistinction to masculine vices, there is still this
one peculiarity which, of itself, marks out the woman as the inferior
animal.

A man, to be worthy of the name, holds his tongue and keeps the
secret of his heart to himself, enjoying it and delighting in it the
more, possibly, for his reticence. A woman may occasionally--very
occasionally--be silent respecting her neighbour, but concerning herself
she is bound to have at least one confidant to whom she will rashly tell
the long story of her loves and her sorrows; and not a consideration
either of prudence or of worldly wisdom will suffice to restrain her too
ready tongue.

Beatrice Miller was a clever girl, with a fair knowledge of the world;
yet she was in no way dismayed that Vera should have discovered her
secret; on the contrary, she was overjoyed that she had now found some
one to talk to about it.

Vera became her friend, but Beatrice was not Vera's friend--the
confidences were not mutual. Over and over again Beatrice was on the
point of questioning her concerning the story that had been on every
one's lips for a time; of asking her what, indeed, was the truth about
her broken engagement; but always the proud, still face restrained her
curiosity, and the words died away unspoken upon her lips.

Vera's story, indeed, was not one that could be easily revealed. There
was too much of bitter regret, too great an element of burning shame at
her heart, for its secrets to be laid bare to a stranger's eye.

Nevertheless, Beatrice's society amused and distracted her mind, and kept
her from brooding over her own troubles. She was glad enough to go over
to Shadonake; even to sit alone with Beatrice and her mother was better
than the eternal monotony of the vicarage, where she felt like a prisoner
waiting for his sentence.

Yes, she was waiting. Waiting for some sign from the man she loved.
Sooner or later, whether it was for good or for evil, she knew it must
come to her; some token that he remembered her existence; some indication
as to what he would have her do with the life that she had laid at his
feet. For, after all, when a woman loves a man, she virtually makes him
the ruler of her destiny; she leaves the responsibility of her fate in
his hands. For the nonce, Maurice Kynaston held the skein of Vera's life
in hi