“I cannot tell you more than was told to me,” Isabel replied coldly. “When I myself sought an explanation of Mr. Clarendon’s will, Mr. Ledbury, one of the trustees, for answer put into my hands two papers. One was a formal letter addressed to Mr. Clarendon, and signed ‘Marian Warren,’ in which the writer said that she consented to her child Ada being given into Mr. Clarendon’s care, and renounced all authority over the child henceforth. The other was a certificate of the same child’s birth; the parents’ names, Henry and Marian Warren. That, as you know, is how you are described in the will. My solicitor made inquiries for me. Your mother was found to be a widow; her husband had been dead not quite a year.” She paused, then added in the same distant way, but with a softer voice: “I know nothing more, Ada.” “Not whether my mother still lives or not?” “No. If you wish to seek further, it is to Mr. Ledbury, I suppose, that you must apply. I am not in personal communication with him, but I can give you his address.” “Will you kindly do so now, then we shall not need to speak of this again.” Ada wrote it as it was spoken. Then they both sat in silence, Ada playing with her pencil. When Mrs. Clarendon rose the girl did not at once seem to notice it; but Isabel remained standing before her, and Ada, rising at length, stood with averted face. Isabel spoke: “Only one word more, Ada. We will not speak again of my duties, but I think you will admit that I have certain rights. Will you promise me that I shall not be left in ignorance of any--any step of importance that you may take--anything you may do that--selfishly speaking--could affect my own position?” “That is clearly your right,” was the answer. “There is no need to ask me for such a promise.” Isabel bowed her head and passed from the room, Ada standing with her face still averted, a nervous tension in her whole frame. They were no nearer to each other for this scene, ending in humiliation which was mutual though differently felt. CHAPTER IX. Here are portions of two letters written by Bernard Kingcote to correspondents in London. The first is to his friend Gabriel, the artist. “.... There is no doubt about its being a mistake, but what step that I have hitherto taken in my life of nine-and-twenty years has been anything else? Whether I act on impulse or after grave deliberation, is all one. You prophesied that I should be miserable in three months; it was a generous limit. I have been here three months, and have been miserable already for two. The idea of this kind of life for a permanency was as absurd as most other ideas which I embrace in splenetic moods. The serious thing is that circumstances seem conspiring to keep me here; I am considerably poorer than when I came, and the possibility of returning to live in London grows dubious. And why should I return? I have as little business there as here.