“Some one says that we are apt to flatter ourselves that we leave our faults when our faults leave us, from change of situation, age, and so forth; and perhaps it does not signify much which it is, if the faults are fairly gone, and if there be no danger of their returning: all our former misunderstandings arose on Cecilia’s part from cowardice of character; on mine from--no matter what--no matter which of us was most wrong.” “True, true,” cried Helen eagerly; and anxious to prevent recurrence to painful recollections, she went on to ask rapidly several questions about Cecilia’s marriage. Lady Davenant smiled, and promised that she should have the whole history of the marriage in true gossip detail. “When I wrote to you, I gave you some general ideas on the subject, but there are little things which could not well be written, even to so safe a young friend as you are, for what is written remains, and often for those by whom it was never intended to be seen; the _dessoux des cartes_ can seldom be either safely or satisfactorily shown on paper, so give me my embroidery-frame, I never can tell well without having something to do with my hands.” And as Helen set the embroidery-frame, Lady Davenant searched for some skeins of silk and silk winders. “Take these, my dear, and wind this silk for me, for I must have my hearer comfortably established, not like the agonised listener in the ‘_World_’ leaning against a table, with the corner running into him all the time.” CHAPTER IV. “I must go back,” continued Lady Davenant, “quite to the dark ages, the time when I knew nothing of my daughter’s character but by the accidental lights which you afforded me. I will take up my story before the reformation, in the middle ages, when you and your dear uncle left us at Florence; about two years ago, when Cecilia was in the height of her conquests, about the time when a certain Colonel D’Aubiguy flourished, you remember him?” Helen answered “Yes,” in rather a constrained voice, which caused Lady Davenant to look up, and on seeing that look of inquiry, Helen coloured, though she would have given the world not to be so foolish. The affair was Cecilia’s, and Helen only wished not to have it recurred to, and yet she had now, by colouring, done the very thing to fix Lady Davenant’s attention, and as the look was prolonged, she coloured more and more. “I see I was wrong,” said Lady Davenant; “I had thought Colonel D’Aubigny’s ecstasy about that miniature of you was only a feint; but I see he really was an admirer of yours, Helen?” “Of mine! oh no, never!” Still from her fear of saying something that should implicate Cecilia, her tone, though she spoke exactly the truth, was not to Lady Davenant’s discriminative ear quite natural--Helen seeing doubt, added, “Impossible, my dear Lady Davenant! you know I was then so young, quite a child!” “No, no, not quite; two from eighteen and sixteen remain, I think, and in our days sixteen is not absolutely a child.”