" said Musselboro. "I suppose you'll do
it best." By this time they were in the drawing-room, and the door
was closed. Dalrymple had put his hand on the other man's arm, and
had led him downstairs, out of reach of hearing from the room above.
"You'll tell her,--won't you?" said Musselboro. Then Dalrymple tried
to think what loving female friend there was who could break the news
to the unfortunate woman. He knew of the Van Sievers, and he knew
of the Demolines, and he almost knew that there was no other woman
within reach whom he was entitled to regard as closely connected with
Mrs. Broughton. He was well aware that the anonymous letter of which
Musselboro had just spoken had come from Miss Demolines, and he could
not go there for sympathy and assistance. Nor could he apply to Mrs
Van Siever after what had passed this morning. To Clara Van Siever he
would have applied, but that it was impossible he should reach Clara
except through her mother. "I suppose I had better go to her," he
said, after a while. And then he went, leaving Musselboro in the
drawing-room. "I'm so bad with it," said Musselboro, "that I really
don't know how I shall ever go up that court again."

Conway Dalrymple made his way up the stairs with very slow steps,
and as he did so he could not but think seriously of the nature of
his friendship with this woman, and could not but condemn himself
heartily for the folly and iniquity of his own conduct. Scores of
times he had professed his love to her with half-expressed words,
intended to mean nothing, as he said to himself when he tried to
excuse himself, but enough to turn her head, even if they did not
reach her heart. Now, this woman was a widow, and it came to be his
duty to tell her that she was so. What if she should claim from
him now the love which he had so often proffered to her! It was
not that he feared that she would claim anything from him at this
moment,--neither now, nor to-morrow, nor the next day,--but the agony
of the present meeting would produce others in which there would be
some tenderness mixed with the agony; and so from one meeting to
another the thing would progress. Dalrymple knew well enough how such
things might progress. But in this danger before him, it was not of
himself that he was thinking, but of her. How could he assist her at
such a time without doing her more injury than benefit? And, if he
did not assist her, who would do so? He knew her to be heartless; but
even he