. Cunliffe
in her presence; she always says afterwards how anxious I looked, or how
he must have noticed my agitation: if I ever came down to see you,
Ursula, she used to declare angrily that I only went in the hope of
meeting him. She thinks nothing of telling me that I am so weak that she
must protect me in spite of myself, and sometimes she implies that he
sees it all and pities me, and that he has hinted as much to her. Oh,
Ursula, what is the matter?' for I had pushed away my chair and was
walking up and down the room, unable to endure my irritated feelings.
She had suffered all this ignominy and prolonged torture under which her
nerves had given way, and now Max's ridiculous scruples hindered me from
giving her a word of comfort. Why could I not say to her, 'You are wrong:
you have been deceived; Max has never swerved for one instant from his
love to you?' And yet I must not say it.

'I cannot sit down! I cannot bear it!' I exclaimed recklessly, quite
forgetting how necessary it was to keep her quiet; but she put out her
hand to me with such a beautiful sad smile.

'Yes, you must sit down and listen to what I have to say: I will not have
you so disturbed about this miserable affair, dear. The pain is better
now; one cannot suffer in that way forever. I do not regret that I have
learned to love Max, even though that love is to bring me unhappiness in
this world. He is worthy of all I can give him, and one day in the better
life what is wrong will be put right; I always tell myself this when I
hear people's lives are disappointed: my illness has taught me this.'

I did not trust myself to reply, and then all at once a thought came to
me: 'Gladys, when I mentioned Captain Hamilton's name just now--I mean at
the commencement of our conversation--why did you seem so troubled? He is
nothing to you, and yet the very mention of his name excited you. This
perplexes me.'

She hesitated for a moment, as though she feared to answer: 'I know I can
trust you, Ursula; but will it be right to do so? I mean, for other
people's sake. But, still, if Etta be talking about him--' She paused,
and seemed absorbed in some puzzling problem.

'You write to him very often,' I hazarded at last, for she did not seem
willing to speak.

'Who told you that?' she returned quickly. 'Claude is my cousin,--at
least step-cousin,--but we are very intimate; there can be no harm in
writing to him.'

'No, of course not: but if people misconstrue