s, but you could hardly expect me
to be pleased. You meant well, of course, but it's a pity to interfere.
There's just one thing I'd like to make clear--you and I can hardly
live together after this. I never was a very agreeable companion, and I
shall be worse in the future. It would be better for your own sake to
make a fresh start, and for myself--I'm sorry to appear brutal, but I
could not stand another winter together. It would remind me too
much..."

She broke off abruptly, and Claire burst into helpless tears.

"Oh, Cecil, Cecil ... don't hate me--don't blame me too much! It's been
hard on me, too. Do you think I _liked_ breaking such news? Of course
I will take fresh rooms. I can understand that you'd rather have some
one else, but let us still be friends! Don't turn against me
altogether. I'm lonely, too... I've got my own trouble!"

"Poor little Claire!" Cecil melted at once, with the quick response
which always rewarded an appeal to her better feelings. "Poor little
Claire. You're a good child; you've done your best. It isn't _your_
fault." She lifted her bag from the table, and took a step towards the
door, then resolutely turned back, and held out her hand. "Good-bye.
Don't cry. What's the good of crying? Good luck to you, my dear, and--
take warning by me. I don't know what your trouble is, but as it isn't
money, it's probably love.--If it is, don't play the fool. If the
chance of happiness comes along, don't throw it away out of pride, or
obstinacy, or foolish prejudice. You won't always be young. When you
get past thirty, it's ... it's hard ... when there's nothing--"

She broke off again, and walked swiftly from the room.

The next moment the front door banged loudly. Cecil had gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

A SUDDEN RESOLVE.

The next morning brought a letter from the farm bidding Claire welcome
as soon as she chose to arrive, but there was no second letter on the
table. Claire had not realised how confidently she had expected its
presence, until her heart sank with a sick, heavy faintness as she
lifted the one envelope, and looked in vain for a second.

Erskine had not written. Did that mean that he had taken her hasty
answer as final, and would make no further appeal? She had read of men
who had boasted haughtily that no girl should have an opportunity of
refusing them _twice_; that the woman who did not know her own mind was
no wife for them, but like every othe