“By accident?” “By chance, I suppose. Shrapnel defends one of your Steynham poaching vermin.” “Mr. Romfrey struck him?—for that? Oh, never!” Rosamund exclaimed. “I suppose he had a long account to settle.” She fetched her breath painfully. “I shall never be forgiven.” “And I say that a gentleman has no business with idols,” the colonel fumed as he spoke. “Those letters of Shrapnel to Nevil Beauchamp are a scandal on the name of Englishman.” “You have read that shocking one, Colonel Halkett?” “Captain Baskelett read it out to us.” “He? Oh! then...” She stopped:—Then the author of this mischief is clear to me! her divining hatred of Cecil would have said, but her humble position did not warrant such speech. A consideration of the lowliness necessitating this restraint at a moment when loudly to denounce another’s infamy with triumphant insight would have solaced and supported her, kept Rosamund dumb. She could not bear to think of her part in the mischief. She was not bound to think of it, knowing actually nothing of the occurrence. Still she felt that she was on her trial. She detected herself running in and out of her nature to fortify it against accusations rather than cleanse it for inspection. It was narrowing in her own sight. The prospect of her having to submit to a further interrogatory, shut it up entrenched in the declaration that Dr. Shrapnel had so far outraged her sentiments as to be said to have offended her: not insulted, perhaps, but certainly offended. And this was a generous distinction. It was generous; and, having recognized the generosity, she was unable to go beyond it. She was presently making the distinction to Miss Halkett. The colonel had left her at the door of the house: Miss Halkett sought admission to her private room on an errand of condolence, for she had sympathized with her very much in the semi-indignity Nevil had forced her to undergo: and very little indeed had she been able to sympathize with Nevil, who had been guilty of the serious fault of allowing himself to appear moved by his own commonplace utterances; or, in other words, the theme being hostile to his audience, he had betrayed emotion over it without first evoking the spirit of pathos. “As for me,” Rosamund replied, to some comforting remarks of Miss Halkett’s, “I do not understand why I should be mixed up in Dr. Shrapnel’s misfortunes: I really am quite unable to recollect his words to me or his behaviour: I have only a positive impression that I left his house, where I had gone to see Captain Beauchamp, in utter disgust, so repelled by his language that I could hardly trust myself to speak of the man to Mr. Romfrey when he questioned me. I did not volunteer it. I am ready to say that I believe Dr. Shrapnel did not intend to be insulting. I cannot say that he was not offensive. You know, Miss Halkett, I would willingly, gladly have saved him from anything like punishment.” “You are too gentle to have thought of it,” said Cecilia.