well off as myself; I gambled again----"

"Clodagh!"

Clodagh put up her hand.

"Wait! It's all leading up to something. I was utterly foolish, utterly
mad. I borrowed again to pay my debts at bridge. Then one day Frances
asked me for her money. It seemed like the end of the world; but it was
a debt of honour--it couldn't be shirked. I wrote her out a cheque that
left me beggared of the half-year's income I had been counting on to
put me straight."

"Oh, Clo, Clo! Why wasn't I here?"

"Yes, why wasn't somebody here? But the worst is to come. I did not
know where to look, I did not know where to turn, when suddenly--quite
suddenly--I thought of your thousand pounds----"

Nance gave a little gasp.

"I remembered that. And, Nance--Nance, can you guess what happened?"

Nance did not attempt to answer.

"I took that thousand pounds. I stole it. Don't say anything! Don't try
to excuse me! I want to face things. I told myself I would write and
tell you; then I told myself I would say it when you came back. But
when you did come"--she halted for a second--"when you did come, Nance,
you loved me, you admired me, you _respected_ me, and--and I couldn't.
When you asked me for the money that night at Tuffnell, I knew I would
have to find it and pay it back without making any confession to you."

A sound that was almost a moan escaped Nance's lips.

"Yes!" Clodagh cried--"yes! I know exactly how great a fool I was. But
what is done is done. The day you drove to Wynchley with Lady Diana and
Walter, I stayed behind to write to Mr. Barnard and ask him to advance
me the money. But somehow I couldn't do that, either; and then--hate
me, Nance! hate me, if you like!--Lord Deerehurst came to me when I was
most disheartened, most depressed, and offered to lend me the money."

"And you took it?" Nance said almost quietly.

"I took it--yes, I took it. I have always been like
that--always--always; grasping at the easy things, letting the hard
ones slip by. And now!--now!"

"Now?"

"Nance, listen!" She took a swift step forward. "It was because of that
loan that I couldn't slight him since we came back to town. You were
right--you were quite right in all you advised; but I couldn't do it.
He had lent me the money. He had seemed my best friend. I felt I
couldn't do it--until yesterday.

"But yesterday, when he left, and Walter spoke of him, I knew there was
no choice. It was my own happiness or his friendship. And I--I decide