“My dear,” said Miss Selina Boyle, “I am in some trouble, and must seek your advice even at the risk of a confession.”

Her exquisite face was half concealed by the shadow of her large black hat, but over her round chin and throat, over the radiant hair that flowed in glittering little curls on to her muslin bodice, the afternoon sun, pouring through the long French window, rested brightly.

She had come upon Miss Chressham at tea; the delicate china was set out on the tulip-wood table, and Susannah, pale and fair in lavender, had laid aside her tapestry frame.

“A confession!” she smiled.

But her visitor’s face remained grave.

“It may come to that,” she said, and her sweet lips trembled.

Susannah Chressham looked at her, thinking of nothing but the frail and endearing beauty she saw. Selina had taken off her black lace pelisse, and from head to foot was in white, fine lawn, that billowed round the gilt chair. Her silk parasol, of the blue of a forget-me-not, rested against her knee, and at her breast was a cream-tinted rose.

“You are very serious,” said Miss Chressham tenderly.

“I think I have a serious matter to deal with,” breathed Miss Boyle.

There was a moment’s pause. Susannah poured out the tea; the pleasant sound of the cups as they touched one another and the whispering of her silks filled the silence.

Then Miss Boyle spoke again, with an effort.

“My dear,” she said pleadingly, “you must forgive me for coming to you. Had I had anyone else—But in town I know none, and I dare not go to my father or to—the persons concerned.”

Miss Chressham set down the cup she held.

“Why, what is the matter?” she asked finally, startled at the other’s tone.

Selina Boyle clasped her hands on her lap.

“What will you think of me?” she cried. “Do not let me entirely lose your good opinion; I am sufficiently distressed and humbled.”

“I implore you to enlighten me,” answered Miss Chressham. “You agitate me, Selina.”

Miss Boyle opened her reticule and drew out a copy of the Gazette.

“This was found by my maid this morning. What am I to do? What am I to do, Susannah?” She unfolded the paper and pointed to a paragraph on the front page. “Read it,” she said in a voice almost inaudible.

“This duel between Mr. Markham and Captain Galton?” asked Miss Chressham, staring at the closely printed sheet.

“No, no! Below—look below.”

Susannah obeyed, and read the following sentences:

“The next item from the Beau Monde has been Communicated to Us by a Lady of Fashion whose Authority is beyond Reproach. It concerns the Happy Advent of Miss S—l—a B——le of Bristol into Town. The Cause of her Coming, it seems, is not that She may be, as her Friends expected, united to her Cousin, Sir Fr——is B——le. This Match has been Broken off, owing to the Lady’s Affection for a Noble Lord who is well known for his Success in Affairs of the Heart. His Lordship being so far Infatuated as to Request Miss S—l—a B——le in a Passionate Letter not to Marry her Cousin, she in a Reply equally Warm, gave the Desired Pledge, though it might have been supposed that His Lordship would allow the Lady the Liberty he had taken to Himself in making a Marriage of Convenience. The Friends of Miss S—l—a B——le and the Admirers of the Earl of L—dw——d Await with interest a Further Development of this Romance, the Course of which we Hope to be able to inform our Readers upon in a future Time.”

Miss Chressham laid the paper down. Her eyes darkened and her cheeks blanched; she averted her glance from Selina Boyle.

“Well,” she said unsteadily, “this is ugly malice; a pity you must notice it.”

“But you understand that I cannot ignore it,” breathed Miss Boyle entreatingly.

The other lady turned slowly and faced her.

“I do not know quite how much you mean me to understand,” she said quietly, “nor why you should not take this paper to your father or Sir Francis.”

“I cannot take it to them,” answered Miss Boyle in a still way, “because what is said there is true.”

“Oh, my dear!” exclaimed Miss Chressham, touched to the heart.

“It is not an invention,” continued Selina. “Whoever wrote that knows the truth.” She bent forward until her hat concealed her drooping face and she clasped her slim hands tightly on her knees. “He wrote to me, as it says, and I answered, and—and that is the reason why I say no to my cousin.”

“There is no need to tell me this,” answered Susannah, trembling. “Why should you justify yourself to me, or speak to me of these things that are your own matter? I can believe you always right, Selina, without explanations.”

“But I want you to hear,” said Miss Boyle earnestly. “It has come to that point when someone must hear, and you are almost like his sister.”

Miss Chressham winced and averted her eyes.

“It is near two years ago since I first met him,” continued Miss Boyle in a low voice, “and from the very first we—he came to The Wells, and there spoke to me—” her words failed her; she pulled out her handkerchief and pressed it to her lips—“of the ruin that involved his fortunes.”

“Why pain yourself to speak of this?” asked Miss Chressham. “Indeed, I have no right to know—hardly to listen.”

Selina Boyle made an effort over her weakness.

“I entreat you, hear me! I deceived you, Susannah. I wrote to you, mentioning him lightly; I did not dare confide in you, and I was languishing for some word of him. We were then almost—secretly betrothed.” She paused, struggling with her troubled breath. “He thought to go to Venice. Then he wrote to me about my lady and Mr. Lyndwood. I saw how hopeless and wrong it was. I—well, it was over.”

Susannah regarded her with eyes of a startled tenderness.

“Some of this I guessed,” she said; “but it was not for me to speak.”

Miss Boyle looked up.

“You guessed!” she exclaimed. “What must you have thought of me?”

“I thought it was no wonder,” she answered.

“You are too gentle with me.” Miss Boyle raised her hand to an agitated bosom and pressed her heart. “But, indeed, I never wrote to him again nor saw him save in public”—her voice was piteously humble—“until he sent me this letter, which—ah, I should not have answered it! But I could not have married Francis, you must understand. I told him so. I had no right.” She turned her head away sharply. “And now it is chalked up for all the world to see!” she said in a muffled voice; “I shall be the talk of London—and, since it is true, what am I to do?”

“Rose or Sir Francis will see it, and the matter will be out of our hands, my dear.”

“That is the least bearable thought,” answered Miss Boyle, “that they should meet on my account—and over this.”

Miss Chressham crossed to her chair.

“Do you then hope to conceal it?”

“If I could!”

“It is impossible,” said Susannah firmly. “That was not put there to be overlooked; it will be repeated.”

“If I could buy up the paper!” cried Selina frantically. “Who could be so wantonly cruel?”

“Do you not guess? Rose’s wife.”

“The Countess!”

“Who else? Only someone in his house could have this knowledge of his correspondence, and she is that manner of woman.”

The outraged blood stormed Miss Boyle’s cheeks.

“You mean—oh, Susannah, you cannot mean that she reads his letters!”

“I have no doubt at all,” said Miss Chressham. “She and her maid spy on him, and on us, perpetually.”

“You think she has read that letter of mine!” cried Selina faintly. “But it is not possible; he would never have left it about. What must she think of me? Oh, that I should come to tremble at what may be thought!”

“I see no cause to tremble,” answered Susannah with resolution. “It is her shame, not yours. Who is she but an ill-bred spiteful woman?”

“Yet his wife,” murmured Miss Boyle; “and I had no right—oh!”—with an accent of deep distress, “should I go to her, implore her not to think ill of me?”

Miss Chressham’s eyes flashed.

............