‘That is nonsense,’ said Lady Merrifield, ‘as you must see if you reflect a little. Dolores was too young to have been told this man’s real character; she only knew that her mother, who had spent her childhood with him, treated him as a brother, and did all she could for him. Dolores did very wrongly and foolishly in keeping up a connection with him unknown to me; but I cannot help feeling there was great excuse for her, and she was quite as much deceived as you were.’ ‘Oh, of course, you stand by your own niece, Lady Merrifield. If you knew what horrid things she said about your pride and unkindness, as she called it, you would not think she deserved it.’ ‘Nay, that is exactly what does most excuse her in my eyes. Her fancying such things of me was what did prevent her from confiding in me.’ Constance had believed herself romantic, but the Christian chivalry of Lady Merrifield’s nature was something quite beyond her. She muttered something about Dolores not deserving, which made her visitor really angry, and say, ‘We had better not talk of deserts. Dolores is a mere child--a mother-less child, who had been a good deal left to herself for many months. I let her come to you because she seemed shy and unhappy with us, and I did not like to deny her the one pleasure she seemed to care for. I knew what an excellent person and thorough lady your sister is, and I thought I could perfectly trust her with you. I little thought you would have encouraged her in concealment, and--I must say--deceit, and thus made me fail in the trust her father reposed in me.’ ‘I would never have done it,’ Constance sobbed, ‘but for what she said about you. Lady Merrifield!’ ‘Well, and even if I am such a hard, severe person, does that make it honourable or right to help the child I trusted to you to carry on this underhand correspondence?’ Constance hung her head. Her sister had said the same to her, but she still felt herself the most injured party, and thought it very hard that she should be so severely blamed for what the girls at her school treated so lightly. She said, ‘I am very sorry. Lady Merrifield,’ but it was not exactly the tone of repentance, and it ended with: ‘If it had not been for her, I should never have done it.’ ‘I suppose not, for there would have been no temptation. I was in hopes that you would have shown some kindlier and more generous feeling towards the younger girl, who could not have gone so far wrong without your assistance, and who feels your treatment of her very bitterly. But to find you incapable of understanding what you have done, makes me all the more glad that the friendship--if friendship it can be called--is broken off between you. Good-bye. I think when you are older and wiser, you will be very sorry to recollect the doings of the last few months.’