o her life? Even were it returned,
she could not marry such a one as Hugh Stanbury. She knew enough of
herself to be quite sure that were he to ask her to do so to-morrow,
she would refuse him. Better go and be scorched, and bored to
death, and buried at the Mandarins, than attempt to regulate a poor
household which, as soon as she made one of its number, would be on
the sure road to ruin!

For a moment there came upon her, not a thought, hardly an
idea,--something of a waking dream that she would write to Mr.
Glascock and withdraw all that she had said. Were she to do so he
would probably despise her, and tell her that he despised her;--but
there might be a chance. It was possible that such a declaration
would bring him back to her;--and did it not bring him back to her
she would only be where she was, a poor lost, shipwrecked creature,
who had flung herself upon the rocks and thrown away her only chance
of a prosperous voyage across the ocean of life; her only chance, for
she was not like other girls, who at any rate remain on the scene
of action, and may refit their spars and still win their way. For
there were to be no more seasons in London, no more living in Curzon
Street, no renewed power of entering the ball-rooms and crowded
staircases in which high-born wealthy lovers can be conquered. A
great prospect had been given to her, and she had flung it aside!
That letter of retractation was, however, quite out of the question.
The reader must not suppose that she had ever thought that she could
write it. She thought of nothing but of coming misery and remorse. In
her wretchedness she fancied that she had absolutely disclosed to the
man who loved her the name of him whom she had been mad enough to say
that she loved. But what did it matter? Let it be as it might, she
was destroyed.

The next morning she came down to breakfast pale as a ghost; and they
who saw her knew at once that she had done that which had made her a
wretched woman.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE STANBURY CORRESPONDENCE.

Half an hour after the proper time, when the others had finished
their tea and bread and butter, Nora Rowley came down among them pale
as a ghost. Her sister had gone to her while she was dressing, but
she had declared that she would prefer to be alone. She would be down
directly, she had said, and had completed her toilet without even the
assistance of her maid. She drank her cup of tea and pretended to eat
her toast; and th