"It was comprised in one sentence. 'Avoid scandal, but fly from sentiment!' Do you see all the wisdom in that advice to a woman who has just become her own mistress?" Still Clodagh was silent, filled by a sense of uncertainty, of loneliness, of fear. She waited for Lady Frances's explanation with the numb sense of helplessness that is born of ignorance. "Of course, I may be wrong," the strong, reliant voice went on; "but I feel you are in need of just such counsel. You are emotional; you are an idealist; you are coming out into life expecting it to be a fairy tale--and it is not a fairy tale. It is a realistic story--sometimes a long one, sometimes a short one, but always realistic. Take my advice! Make the best of it as it is! Don't break your heart because there are no dragons, or castles, or princes." She paused at last; and at last Clodagh spoke. "You are very kind--very good. But I don't see what it all has to do with me." With a frank, almost an affectionate gesture, Lady Frances took both her hands, and, looking into her face, spoke the words for which she had so carefully prepared the way. "If what I am going to say hurts you, you must forgive me. I feel such centuries older than you, that I can risk a great deal. Don't spoil your life, don't throw away your pleasure, because of one moral lecture! It isn't worth while. I know what I am saying. People like Walter Gore are reprehensible. They take themselves so seriously, that sometimes other people make the mistake of taking them seriously too; and then things go wrong." Clodagh's face became a shade paler. "I--I am stupid," she said. "I don't seem to understand." "My dear! It is so hard to say it bluntly." "Please say it bluntly." For an instant the older woman hesitated before the coldness of Clodagh's tone; but the next, she took the opening offered her. "You are deliberately turning away from the best in life because some one, in a moment of enthusiasm, preached you a sermon. You make the mistake of thinking that Walter Gore did something unusual when he warned you against cards and roulette--against Lord Deerehurst and Val Serracauld and me--whereas, Walter was born to preach!" Clodagh's lips parted. Lady Frances had justified herself. Gore _had_ spoken of that last interview. But why? And how? "Lady Frances," she said very quietly, "why did Sir Walter Gore tell you all these things?" Lady Frances freed the hands she had continued to hold. "Oh, we are old friends. He tells me many things. I fought more than one battle for you, while you were in Venice--and afterwards." "For me? After I left Venice?" "Oh, many battles. Walter is so extreme in his judgments of men and things. I lose patience with him sometimes." "And what was Sir Walter Gore's judgment of me--after I left Venice?" Lady Frances gave a little deprecating laugh. "Would that be quite fair?" "Yes, I think so, if I wish to know." The older woman took a fresh cigarette from the case beside her.