Still, she had a right to know how things were. He could not simply draw back, holding his peace, and seeking her no longer. She must understand; and he would explain—nay, more, he would ask her advice. She had so clear a sense of right and wrong, so calm a judgment, so firm a habit of self-denial, that she would be able to see clearly what he had lost the power to distinguish, from physical and mental strain. All this he had resolved to put before Ethel, picturing even the words to be used. But now that she had suddenly appeared, now that she was seated by his side, he found his lips sealed; for it came over him with a rush of new realisation what he was purposing to do. Give her up—and for ever! Give her up—for the sake of Fulvia! Could he? The old sense arose vividly, which he always had with Ethel, that nothing in life was worth consideration apart from her! Part with her for ever! Had it been a question of waiting, he would have resolved to wait in hope—to wait for years, if that needed to be!—but to cut himself off from her hopelessly was another matter. Yet if he did not—and the reverse side of the picture arose: a picture of his father's name publicly dishonoured, of his mother broken-hearted, of the wronged Fulvia wronged anew! "I don't know how to bear to see you like this!" Ethel said sorrowfully. And her voice unsealed his lips. He knew that he must not let the opportunity pass of speaking openly. Such another might not occur. "What did I say just now?" he asked. "Something, was it not, that surprised you?" "I thought you did not quite mean what you said. About your trouble; and—'if that were all!'" "Yes, I meant it. There is worse than you know." "Will you tell me what? You always do tell—us things," she said, in a gentle voice. The "us" came after a pause. She had almost said "me"; and it would have been true. Ethel wondered if he were going to speak, he waited so long; but she too waited, and presently he began. "We have lost almost everything. The Grange cannot be our home any longer. A small house—somewhere; and I—my mother and sisters will be dependent on me." "Yes." It was a quiet grave monosyllable. As if on second thoughts, she added, "That will be a great trouble to you all." "Not the worst yet! Fulvia's money is gone!" "Gone! Where?" Nigel made a movement of his hand towards the new mound. "He is—there! One cannot speak against him—now! It is a miserable tale. This is only for yourself—not to go further. He did not intend, of course, to injure any one—Fulvia least of all—if that is any excuse. I can't see that it is. As my mother says, no one ever does intend. But—we can't judge. I don't feel as if I could face his side of the matter; only to think of what has to be done. There will be something left—not much. I shall be a clerk at the Bank on £200 a year."