o one to see
her--yet something restrained her. It was not kind to Godfrey's memory;
he had been so good to her, so uniformly affectionate and indulgent
towards her, that she would not seem to slight him even in solitude. As
for the dancing blood in her veins, she told herself it was purely
physical. She was so well and strong that she could not help feeling
just a little happy.

And though she had often traversed the same narrow little winding path
since, she had never perhaps felt quite the same again.

On the other hand, there lay the short cut to Claymount--that was Val's
way. She would not take Val's way, although of late Val had ceased to
frequent it. He had no object in doing so, since Leonore was never to be
met with now.

Once or twice he had adverted to this, but she had replied evasively.
Val did not interest her, did not amuse her any longer. He grew tiresome
since he had taken to making remarks upon her altered appearance, and
putting direct, awkward questions.

Things might have been worse, of course; but on the whole she would even
have preferred an open rupture and well-founded resentment, to this
persistent determination to know how things were with her,--and others?

Val had no liking for Paul Foster now, though at first he had professed
such. He had no reason to give, and an obstinate look would come over
his face if pressed. Once he had murmured something of which Leo only
caught the words, "jolly deceitful,"--and the next minute he denied
having spoken them.

To herself Leo owned that she had not behaved well to poor Val, having
made use of him for selfish ends; but the experiment had harmed neither,
and no remorse need be wasted upon it.

With George Butts it was the same; he was fair game, having come in
search of her supposititious fortune, without even the excuse of an
honest, jog-trot fidelity such as Val's. She had been scolded on
George's account, but had not scolded herself, and had archly and
triumphantly pointed out the recusant to Sue in a sly corner of a
London balcony.

But young Andrews? Ah, _that_ stung. The home truths forced from those
quivering lips, the agony of those imploring eyes--she quailed before
them. They pierced her already shame-embittered soul, they were her
dying wounds. For she had made another suffer what she herself was
suffering, and had done it wantonly. There was no excuse for her,--none.
There should be no pity, no sorrow--if it were possible, no knowl