“It is a pity”—she began, and then checked herself; but a faint colour came into her lips, a flush of anger at the recollection of how he had repaid the kindness shown him. Jingles waited for her to finish the sentence, but as she did not do so, he said, “It is a pity I did not remember this earlier. Yes, that I now admit, to my indelible shame. I acted most ungratefully. I do not know, my lady, what Miss Inglett has told you, and therefore I am placed in a difficulty.” “She has told me everything,” answered Lady Lamerton, “at least so I suppose. Here is her letter to me, which you are at liberty to peruse, and you will see by it if there is anything kept back which ought to be told, or which you wish to tell me.” She extended a note to him, and he took it, and ran his eye through it. It was written in Arminell’s firm hand, and it told everything, in her plain, decisive, and direct manner—she hid nothing, she excused nothing. He returned the letter to Lady Lamerton. “There is but one thing for me to add—or rather,” said he, “one correction for me to make. Miss Inglett takes the blame on herself. It should rest mainly on my shoulders. Without my offer of help she never would have left this house. I have no word of self-excuse. No one can reproach me more severely than I reproach myself. In no eyes can I figure more despicably than in my own. That is all I have to say—to assure you of my gratitude and my regret. I thank you, Lady Lamerton, that you have permitted me to see you and say this.”