“I know you advised it,” asserted Clara. “But it's a great blow to them. How strange that Mr. Hubbard should have disappeared the last night Ben was at home! I'm glad that he got away without knowing anything about it.” Atherton drank off his tea, and refused a second cup with a gesture of his hand. “Yes, so am I,” he said. “I'm glad of every league of sea he puts behind him.” He rose, as if eager to leave the subject. Clara rose too, with the patient acquiescence of a woman, and took his hand proffered in parting. They had certainly talked out, but there seemed no reason why he should go. He held her hand, while he asked, “How shall I make my peace with you?” “My peace? What for?” She flushed joyfully. “I was the one in fault.” He looked at her mystified. “Why, surely, _you_ didn't repeat Halleck's remark?” “Oh!” she cried indignantly, withdrawing her hand. “I meant _this morning_. It doesn't matter,” she added. “If you still wish to resign the charge of my affairs, of course I must submit. But I thought--I thought--” She did not go on, she was too deeply hurt. Up to this moment she had imagined that she had befriended Marcia, and taken all that trouble upon herself for goodness' sake; but now she was ready to upbraid him for ingratitude in not seeing that she had done it for his sake. “You can send me the statement, and then--and then--I don't know what I _shall_ do! _Why_ do you mind what I said? I've often said quite as much before, and you know that I didn't mean it. I want you to take my property back again, and never to mind anything I say: I'm not worth minding.” Her intended upbraiding had come to this pitiful effect of self-contempt, and her hand somehow was in his again. “Do take it back!” “If I do that,” said Atherton, gravely, “I must make my conditions,” and now they sat down together on the sofa from which he had risen. “I can't be subjected again to your--disappointments,”--he arrested with a motion of his hand the profuse expression of her penitence and good intentions,--“and I've felt for a long time that this was no attitude for your attorney. You ought to have the right to question and censure; but I confess I can't grant you this. I've allowed myself to make your interests too much my own in everything to be able to bear it. I've thought several times that I ought to give up the trust; but it seemed like giving up so much more, that I never had the courage to do it in cold blood. This morning you gave me my chance to do it in hot blood, and if I resume it, I must make my terms.” It seemed a long speech to Clara, who sometimes thought she knew whither it tended, and sometimes not. She said in a low voice, “Yes.” “I must be relieved,” continued Atherton, “of the sense I've had that it was indelicate in me to keep it, while I felt as I've grown to feel--towards you.” He stopped: “If I take it back, you must come with it!” he suddenly concluded.