Lady Henmarsh spoke earnestly and with much mental trepidation. She had ventured very, very far; much farther than, when she entered Katharine's room, she had believed she would dare to venture, for she too knew that Katharine had what her father called "a devil of a temper;" and there were few things she would not have preferred to rousing it. But the silence of the girl, something of forlornness under her pride, the patience with which she had borne her first approaches, had given Lady Henmarsh courage, and Katharine's demeanour satisfied her that all her suspicions had been more than just, that she had loved Gordon Frere frankly, fully, and with all the truth and ardour which were characteristic of her better nature. A moment's silence ensued when she had ceased speaking, and then Katharine, stately, cold, and graceful, rose from her chair, and, placing her hand upon the bell to summon her maid, said: "I appreciate your kindness and your advice, Lady Henmarsh. If you will come back for me in half an hour, I will go with you any where you please. But--this subject must never be spoken of again between you and me." Katharine's maid entered the room, and Lady Henmarsh left it, merely saying in an assenting tone, "Very well, my dear," and descended the stairs to the hall. There she met Mr. Guyon, who attended her to her carriage with great solicitude. A whisper only passed between them, for they treated servants with systematic caution. It was from Lady Henmarsh, who said: "I don't think you will have much trouble, Ned." Several persons of her acquaintance met Miss Guyon driving in the Park that afternoon, and had ample leisure to observe her amid the diminished throng. A few regarded her with curiosity--for though Lady Henmarsh had grossly exaggerated the facts, she and Gordon Frere had been "talked of" in their own set--many with admiration, and remarked that she looked particularly well and blooming, not at all cut up by the season. None knew that something had gone out of the beautiful face that was never to return to it--that the woman they admired that day was not the same they had been accustomed to see and to admire, but who was now a thing of the past, never more to have any terrene existence. "Katharine," said Mr. Guyon to his daughter on the following day, as she sat opposite him at breakfast, while he furtively watched her countenance from behind the defence of a convenient newspaper, "I have something to say to you." "Have you, papa? What is it?" She looked at him uninterested and unconcerned. Mr. Guyon threw down his newspaper, left his chair, and took up a position on the hearthrug suggestive of wintry weather. He felt and he looked awkward; he cleared his throat, and pulled at the blue-silk ribbon which encircled it, as though its pressure incommoded him. His daughter did not move, and the expression of her face was still uninterested, unconcerned.