“Extraordinary it may be, but not unwarranted. I have the justification within, in my conscience. When one has done that which is wrong, one is called to suffer for it, and the conscience is never cleansed and restored without expiating pains. If I were to return to Orleigh I would die morally, of that I am sure, because it would be a shirking of the consequences which my foolish act has brought down on me.” “There may be something in that,” said Welsh. “I will write to Lady Lamerton and tell her everything and assure her that my decision is irrevocable. I have caused her so much pain, I have behaved so badly to my father, I have been so ungrateful for all the happy days and pleasant comforts of dear, dear Orleigh”—her eyes filled with tears, and she was unable to finish her sentence. Mr. Welsh said nothing. “No,” she said, after a pause—“No, Mr. Welsh, I cannot in conscience go home, there to dissemble and lie to Mrs. Cribbage and to neighbours; and never to be able to shake off the sense of self-reproach for not having frankly accepted the results of my own misconduct. Do you know, Mr. Welsh, I was angry with my father because I thought he was evading his retribution?” Mr. Welsh, usually a talkative man, felt no inclination now to say a word. “Mr. Welsh,” said Arminell, “I ask you to go to Portland Place, call on Lady Hermione Woodhead, she is a practical woman of the world; lay the entire case before her, and see if she does not say, ‘Throw her in again, for Heaven’s sake, so as to keep the story out of the papers.’” “And if her ladyship does not say so?” “She will say it.” “If she does not, but asks me to bring you to her, will you go to Portland Place?” “No; my resolution is taken.” Welsh stood up and paced the room. “What the deuce will you do?” he asked. “You are quite a girl, and a pretty girl, and confoundedly inexperienced. You cannot, you must not live alone. My Tryphœna is a good soul; it is true that we are without a cook, but if you do not object to rissoles I shall be happy to offer you such hospitality as my house affords. Shepherd’s Bush is not the most aristocratic quarter of the town, but Poplar is worse; it is not near the theatres and the parks, but you’re welcome to it. Your idea is startling. I’ll go into that _cul-de-sac_, Queen’s Square, where runs no cab, no ’bus does rumble, and consider it there.” “Will you see my aunt, Lady Hermione? It will save me writing, and you can explain the circumstances by word better than I can tell them with a pen.” “Bless me! I have a mind to do so.” He stopped, went to the window, came back, and said abruptly, “Yes, I will. God bless me! To think that I—I of all men, a raging Democrat, should be hansoming to and fro between my Ladies and Honourables.” “You can do what will give you pleasure,” said the girl with a faint smile—“with a stroke of the pen convert the Honourable Arminell into plain Miss Inglett.”