still from contempt.

"You were about to leave the room," she said. "I notice--as an act of
justice to _you_--that my presence arouses some sense of shame."

Herbert turned to Sydney; trying to recover herself, she stood near the
table. "Give me the book," he said; "the sooner this comes to an end
the better for her, the better for us." Sydney gave him the book. With a
visible effort, he matched Catherine's self-control; after all, she had
remembered his gift! He offered the book to her.

She still kept her eyes fixed on Sydney--still spoke to Sydney.

"Tell him," she said, "that I refuse to receive the book."

Sydney attempted to obey. At the first words she uttered, Herbert
checked her once more.

"I have begged you already not to submit to insult." He turned to
Catherine. "The book is yours, madam. Why do you refuse to take it?"

She looked at him for the first time. A proud sense of wrong flashed at
him its keenly felt indignation in her first glance. "Your hands and
her hands have touched it," she answered. "I leave it to _you_ and to
_her_."

Those words stung him. "Contempt," he said, "is bitter indeed on your
lips."

"Do you presume to resent my contempt?"

"I forbid you to insult Miss Westerfield." With that reply, he turned to
Sydney. "You shall not suffer while I can prevent it," he said tenderly,
and approached to put his arm round her. She looked at Catherine, and
drew back from his embrace, gently repelling him by a gesture.

Catherine felt and respected the true delicacy, the true penitence,
expressed in that action. She advanced to Sydney. "Miss Westerfield,"
she said, "I will take the book--from you."

Sydney gave back the book without a word; in her position silence was
the truest gratitude. Quietly and firmly Catherine removed the blank
leaf on which Herbert had written, and laid it before him on the table.
"I return your inscription. It means nothing now." Those words were
steadily pronounced; not the slightest appearance of temper accompanied
them. She moved slowly to the door and looked back at Sydney. "Make some
allowance for what I have suffered," she said gently. "If I have wounded
you, I regret it." The faint sound of her dress on the carpet was heard
in the perfect stillness, and lost again. They saw her no more.

Herbert approached Sydney. It was a moment when he was bound to assure
her of his sympathy. He felt for her. In his inmost heart he felt for
her. As he drew nearer,