chance of success. It was terrible to her that any woman dear
to her should seem to seek for a man's love. And the audacity with which
Lady Ongar bad proclaimed her own feelings had been terrible also to
Cecilia. She was aware that she was meddling with things which were
foreign to her nature, and which would be odious to her husband. But
yet, was not the battle worth fighting? It was not to be endured that
Florence should seek after this thing; but, after all, the possession of
the thing in question was the only earthly good that could give any
comfort to poor Florence. Even Cecilia, with all her partiality for
Harry, felt that he was not worth the struggle; but it was for her now
to estimate him at the price which Florence might put upon him--not at
her own price.

But she must tell Florence what had been done, and tell her on that very
day of her meeting with Lady Ongar. In no other way could she stop that
letter which she knew that Florence would have already written to Mrs.
Clavering. And could she now tell Florence that there was ground for
hope? Was it not the fact that Lady Ongar had spoken the simple and
plain truth when she had said that Harry must be allowed to choose the
course which appeared to him to be the best for him? It was hard, very
hard, that it should be so. And was it not true also that men, as well
as gods, excuse the perjuries of lovers? She wanted to have back Harry
among them as one to be forgiven easily, to be petted much, and to be
loved always; but, in spite of the softness of her woman's nature, she
wished that he might be punished sorely if he did not so return. It was
grievous to her that he should any longer have a choice in the matter.
Heavens and earth! was he to be allowed to treat a woman as he had
treated Florence, and was nothing to come of it? In spite both of gods
and men, the thing was so grievous to Cecilia Burton that she could not
bring herself to acknowledge that it was possible. Such things had not
been done in the world which she had known.

She walked the whole way home to Brompton, and had hardly perfected any
plan when she reached her own door. If only Florence would allow her to
write the letter to Mrs. Clavering, perhaps something might be done in
that way. So she entered the house prepared to tell the story of her
morning's work.

And she must tell it also to her husband in the evening! It had been
hard to do the thing without his knowing of it beforehand, but it