‘It is as well that you have shown me by this specimen how you intend to behave. I will give you till to-morrow morning to reflect upon your position. Allow me to remind you that I never asked you to behave to Miss Bolton as if you liked her. It will be perfectly immaterial to her how you behave. But I want civility from you towards my future wife, or, if you choose to withhold it, I shall have to exert my authority as your guardian, and remove you–in other words, my dear little girl, I have no wish to make your life uncomfortable, but unless you can obey me without making scenes like this, I shall send you to school.’ Now ‘school’ had been the horror, and the bugbear, and the _bête noire_ of Miss Wellfield’s life from her earliest childhood. She had often been threatened with it; and seldom had the threat failed to work its soothing spell. On hearing Jerome’s words now–on seeing the cool unrelenting expression in his eyes, and the slight sarcastic smile upon his lips, and recognising the absolute power he held over her destiny–how easily he could make her miserable, if not so easily happy; remembering that Sara was far away, and that under the circumstances she might never see that dear friend again; remembering that she had never seen this Miss Bolton, who might be quite ignorant of all that had happened–remembering, in short, her own helplessness and desolation, she burst into a passion of tears, of hopeless, agonised weeping, exclaiming now and then: ‘What a home-coming! Oh, what a dreadful coming home!’ Jerome let her cry in the corner of the settee, and took no notice of her; till about seven o’clock he rose from his chair, went to her and put his hand upon her shoulder. She looked up, her face all tear-stained and pitiful; her golden hair tumbled about her head. ‘I am going to the Abbey, and shall not be in till after ten o’clock,’ he said. ‘Am I to tell Miss Bolton that I may take you to see her to-morrow, or not?’ ‘I don’t know,’ replied Avice, hopelessly. ‘Ah, you will know by to-morrow. I shall tell her that I intend to bring you. Good-evening. I should advise you to go to bed before long.’ But she did not go to bed. She sat in a stupor of grief and bewilderment. While she had been crying, Jerome had written a letter. Her passion had irritated him, and he had allowed his irritation to influence his words to Sara. He had ‘set her free’ (no need to put such a pitiful document into print–it was feeble and despicable, illogical, and yet stabbing like a dagger, as such productions–the efforts of selfishness to kick down the ladder by which it has risen–always must be). ‘He would not stand in her way, he who had nothing to offer her–no faintest prospect of a home, or of anything worthy to give her.’ In short, under the pretence of consulting her interests, Jerome Wellfield very decidedly asked Sara Ford to dismiss him, to release him from his bond.