‘And what did he tell you?’ asked Mrs. Damerel, who remained standing,--or rather had risen, after a pretence of seating herself. ‘Nothing at all. He was very strange in his manner. He said he would write.’ ‘You know that he is seriously ill?’ ‘I am afraid he must be.’ ‘He has grown much worse during the last fortnight. Don’t you suspect any reason for his throwing off poor Winifred?’ ‘I wondered whether he had met that girl again. But it seemed very unlikely.’ ‘He has. She was at Bournemouth for her health. She, too, is ill; consumptive, like poor Horace,--of course a result of the life she has been leading. And he is going to marry her.’Nancy’s heart sank. She could say nothing. She remembered Horace’s face, and saw in him the victim of ruthless destiny. ‘I have done my utmost. He didn’t speak of me?’ ‘Only to say that his engagement with Winifred was brought about by you.’ ‘And wasn’t I justified? If the poor boy must die, he would at least have died with friends about him, and in peace. I always feared just what has happened. It’s only a few months ago that he forgave me for being, as he thought, the cause of that girl’s ruin; and since then I have hardly dared to lose sight of him. I went down to Bournemouth unexpectedly, and was with him when that creature came to the door in a carriage. You haven’t seen her. She looks what she is, the vilest of the vile. As if any one can be held responsible for that! She was born to be what she is. And if I had the power, I would crush out her hateful life to save poor Horace!’ Nancy, though at one with the speaker in her hatred of Fanny French, found it as difficult as ever to feel sympathetically towards Mrs. Damerel. She could not credit this worldly woman with genuine affection for Horace; the vehemence of her speech surprised and troubled her, she knew not how. ‘He said nothing more about me?’ added Mrs. Damerel, after a silence. ‘Nothing at all.’ It seemed to Nancy that she heard a sigh of relief. The other’s face was turned away. Then Mrs. Damerel took a seat by the fire. ‘They will be married to-morrow, I dare say, at Bournemouth--no use trying to prevent it. I don’t know whether you will believe me, but it is a blow that will darken the rest of my life.’ Her voice sounded slightly hoarse, and she lay back in the chair, with drooping head. ‘You have nothing to reproach yourself with,’ said Nancy, yielding to a vague and troublous pity. ‘And you have done as much as any one could on his behalf.’ ‘I shall never see him again--that’s the hardest thought. She will poison him against me. He told me I had lied to him about a letter that girl wrote from Brussels; she has made him think her a spotless innocent, and he hates me for the truth I told about her.’ ‘However short his life,’ said Nancy, ‘he is only too likely to find out what she really is.’