a woman, had reserves of strength. He
was perhaps of Lady Charlotte's mind with regard to the existence of
a Countess of Ormont, or he would know her to be incredibly cowardly.
Cowardly under the boast of pride, too; well, then, say, if you like, a
woman!

Yet this mere shallow woman would not hesitate to meet the terrible Lady
Charlotte at any instant, on any terms: and what are we to think of
a soldier, hero, lion, dreading to tell her to her face that the
persecuted woman is his wife!

'Am I a woman they can be ashamed of?' she asked, and did not seek the
answer at her mirror. She was in her bedroom, and she put out a hand
to her jewel-box, fingered it, found it locked, and abandoned her idle
project. A gentleman was 'dangerous.' She had not found him so. He had
the reputation, perhaps, because he was earnest. Not so very many men
are earnest. She called to recollection how ludicrously practical he was
in the thick of his passion. His third letter (addressed to the Countess
of Ormont--whom he manifestly did not or would not take to be the
veritable Countess--and there was much to plead for his error), or was
it his fourth?--the letters were a tropical hail-storm: third or
fourth, he broke off a streaked thunderpeal, to capitulate his worldly
possessions, give the names and degrees of kinship of his relatives, the
exact amount of the rent-roll of his Yorkshire estates, of his funded
property.

Silly man! but not contemptible. He proposed everything in honour, from
his view of it.

Whether in his third, fourth, or fifth letter.... How many had come?
She drew the key from her purse, and opened a drawer. The key of the
jewel-box was applied to the lock.

Mr. Morsfield had sent her six flaming letters. He not only took no
precautions, he boasted that he hailed the consequences of discovery.
Six!

She lifted a pen: it had to be done.

He was briefly informed that he disturbed her peace. She begged he would
abstain from any further writing to her.

The severity was in the brevity. The contrast of her style and his
appeared harsh. But it belonged to the position.

Having with one dash of the pen scribbled her three lines, she slipped
the letter into her pocket. That was done, and it had to be done; it
ought to have been done before. How simple it was when one contemplated
it as actually done! Aminta made the motion of a hand along the paper,
just a flourish. Soon after, her head dropped back on the chair, and he