John Leyburn joined the party at supper, and was observed to be unusually silent; in fact, almost speechless. When Nita, being apart with him during the evening, innocently observed: ‘What do you think of her, John? is she not _lovely_?’ the unhappy young man blushed crimson, and, not looking at ‘her’ at all, fumbled wildly amongst some books, and stammered: ‘She’s–yes, she’s–rather good-looking.’ ‘John!’ exclaimed Nita, looking at him for a moment, and then breaking into laughter, not loud but prolonged, and of intense enjoyment. ‘Well?’ said John, maddened in the consciousness that he had said the very thing he least wished to express; ‘rather good-looking’ being the very last description he would have wished to apply to Avice Wellfield. The evening passed over. As Jerome and his sister walked home, he did not ask her what she thought of Nita, and she did not volunteer any observation on the subject. Only, as she held out her hand and wished him good-night, he asked: ‘Well, have you decided whether you will stay with me, or go to school?’ She replied, coldly, ‘I should prefer to stay here,’ and left him. Indeed, she had quite decided that she would prefer to stay there. Avice had to learn early to decide in a difficult matter: she found herself face to face with a hard problem; she acted as a girl, as one inexperienced and untried, with no great range of observation, no extensive data to go upon, was likely to act. She was conscious that Jerome had done wrong; she was aware that Sara Ford, at least, must be suffering cruelly from his wrong-doing, and the problem was, whether she ought to tell Nita Bolton what she knew, or whether she ought not to tell her. She ended by not telling her; it seemed enough that there should be one heartbreak in the case. Nita’s joy in her love, her happiness, her high spirits, smote upon the other girl’s heart many a time during the short engagement that lasted only while settlements were being made, and legal affairs settled: she could not find it in her heart to smite down that joy and happiness; she could not convince herself that it was right to do so. Meanwhile, two or three days passed, and then Jerome had news–if news it could be called, wordless and yet eloquent as it was–of Sara. A small packet arrived one morning, and the label belonging to it was directed in her hand; bold, clear, and legible. He opened it, and found the sapphire hoop he had given her when she had promised to marry him. Nothing else–not a word–not a syllable–but that was enough, and more than enough. It contained his ‘freedom,’ and her condemnation of him–a condemnation too utter, too strong and intense for words. Wellfield had arrived at that pitch of moral degradation in which he felt relieved rather than otherwise, when the ring was in his keeping again. He had opened the packet at the breakfast-table. Avice saw the ring, and with suave but treacherous sweetness of accent, inquired: ‘Is that a present for Miss Bolton?’