"Much more than that. There was much more than that. There was my duty to my brother, stronger than even to my niece. He is getting elderly; and for me to be printed as proving anything against his daughter, would surely have been too much for him. He looked to me so for consolation, and some one to say kind words to him, that to find me in evidence against him might have been his death-blow. No consideration for myself or my own feelings had the weight of a rose-leaf with me. In the breach I would have stood, if I had followed my own wishes. But my duty was to curb myself. You are following me, Russel, carefully?" "Word for word, as you say it, madam; so far as my poor wits allow." "Very well, then. I have made it quite clear. That is the beauty of having to explain to clever people." "I thank you for the compliment," replied Overshute, with a puzzled look; "but I have not earned it; for I cannot see that you have told me anything that I did not know some weeks ago. It may be my stupidity, of course; but I thought that something had occurred quite lately." "Oh yes, to be sure! It was only to-day! I meant to have told you that first of all. I was grossly insulted. But I am so forgiving that I had forgotten it--quite forgotten it, until you happened to speak of it. A peculiarly insolent proceeding on the part of poor Mrs. Sharp, it appears--or, perhaps, some one for her; for everybody says that she really now has no mind of her own. She did not write me one single line, although I had written politely to her; and she sent me a message--I am sure of it--too bad to be repeated. No one would tell me what it was; which aggravates it to the last degree. I assure you I have not been so upset for years; or, at any rate, not since poor Grace was lost. And about that, unless I am much mistaken, that very low, selfish, and plotting person, knows a great deal more than we have ever dreamed. It would not surprise me in the least, especially after what happened today, to find Mrs. Sharp at the bottom of all of it. At any rate, she has aroused my suspicion by her contemptible insolence. And I am not a person to drop a thing." "Why, what has she done?" asked Overshute once more; while in spite of impatience he could scarcely help smiling at poor Mrs. Fermitage's petty wrath and frequent self-contradiction. "What she did was this. She sent me back, not even packed in nice white paper, not even sprinkled with eau de Cologne, not even washed--what do you think of that?--but rolled up anyhow in brown paper, the same as a drayman would use for his taps--oh, Russel, would you ever believe it!" "Certainly it seems very unpolite. But what was it she sent back to you?" "Not even the article I expected! Not even that ingredient of costume which I had lent poor Gracie, very nice and pretty ones--but an old grey pair of silken-hose, disgraceful even to look at! It is true that they bear my initials; but I had discarded them long ago."