“Oh, yes, I did. And there was Lord Newmarch, who is coming here on the 1st to make my acquaintance. I hope you don’t mind. He was so anxious to see me, poor fellow, that I could not deprive him of that pleasure. I hope, Clare, you don’t mind.” “Not in the least,” she said, in her most genial mood. “If you will not be shocked, I rather like him, Edgar. He means well; and then if he is a Radical, it is in a kind of dignified superior way.” “So it is,” said Edgar; “very superior, and very dignified--not to say instructive--but we might get too clever, don’t you think, if we had too much of it? There was some one else there, about whom you must pardon me, Clare. I was led into giving him an invitation--without thinking. It did not occur to me till after----” Edgar grew very red making his excuses, and Clare grew pale listening. She made a great effort over herself, and clasped her hands together, and looked at her brother with a forced smile. “Why should you hesitate?” she said. “Edgar, you are master; I wish you to be master. Whoever you choose to ask ought to be welcome to me.” “I do not wish to be master so long as I have my sister to consult,” he said; “but this was a mistake, an inadvertence, Clare. You can’t guess? It was Arthur Arden whom I met at the Pimpernels!” “Ah!” Clare said, growing paler and paler. But she made no observation, and kept listening with her hands clasped fast. “I asked him to come in September, remembering you had said you did not like him much; but he offered himself for June. I did not accept his proposed visit; but from what I saw and what I hear it seems likely he will come.” “No doubt he will come,” said Clare; and then her hands separated themselves. She had heard all that she had to fear. “If I hate him it is not for myself,” she added hurriedly, “but for you Edgar. He did all he could to injure you.” “So I have heard. But how could he injure me?” said her brother, feeling that it was now his turn. “Edgar, I hate to speak of it. You can’t understand my love for poor papa. Arthur tried to set him against---- It was--his fault. No; Edgar, no, I don’t mean that--it was not his fault; but he tried to make things worse. That is why I hate--no, I don’t hate. If you don’t mind Edgar---- You kind, good, sweet-tempered boy----!” And here, in a strange transport, which he could not understand, Clare took his hand, and held it close, and pressed it to her heart, which was beating fast. She looked up at him with tears in her eyes, with a curious admiration. “You are not like us other Ardens,” she said. “We ought to learn of you; we ought to look up to you, Edgar. You can forgive. You don’t keep on remembering and thinking over everything that people have done and said against you. You can put it away out of your mind. Edgar, dear, I hate myself, and I love you with all my heart.”