me?"

"Something that will rather surprise you, Basil: I have to tell you to
leave London at once! Leave it for your own interests and for everybody
else's. My father has found out that Clara has been to see you."

"Good heavens! how?"

"He won't tell me. But he has found it out. You know how you stand in
his opinion--I leave you to imagine what he thinks of Clara's conduct in
coming here."

"No! no! tell me yourself, Ralph--tell me how she bears his
displeasure!"

"As badly as possible. After having forbidden her ever to enter this
house again, he now only shows how he is offended, by his silence; and
it is exactly that, of course, which distresses her. Between her notions
of implicit obedience to _him,_ and her opposite notions, just as
strong, of her sisterly duties to _you,_ she is made miserable from
morning to night. What she will end in, if things go on like this, I am
really afraid to think; and I'm not easily frightened, as you know.
Now, Basil, listen to me: it is _your_ business to stop this, and _my_
business to tell you how."

"I will do anything you wish--anything for Clara's sake!"

"Then leave London; and so cut short the struggle between her duty and
her inclination. If you don't, my father is quite capable of taking her
at once into the country, though I know he has important business to
keep him in London. Write a letter to her, saying that you have gone
away for your health, for change of scene and peace of mind--gone away,
in short, to come back better some day. Don't say where you're going,
and don't tell me, for she is sure to ask, and sure to get it out of
me if I know. Then she might be writing to you, and that might be found
out, too. She can't distress herself about your absence, if you
account for it properly, as she distresses herself now--that is one
consideration. And you will serve your own interests, as well as
Clara's, by going away--that is another."

"Never mind _my_ interests. Clara! I can only think of Clara!"

"But you _have_ interests, and you must think of them. I told my father
of the death of that unhappy woman, and of your noble behaviour when she
was dying. Don't interrupt me, Basil--it _was_ noble; I couldn't have
done what you did, I can tell you! I saw he was more struck by it than
he was willing to confess. An impression has been made on him by the
turn circumstances have taken. Only leave that impression to strengthen,
and you're safe. But if you destroy it by