"Nothing much," interposed Florella. "I told Mr Waynflete about it last summer." "Guy knows?" "Yes; he knows it was nothing of consequence. But of course it was very foolish of us." "And very amusing," said Constancy, defiantly. "I hope the inhabitants of Waynflete were frightened enough to afford you amusement. In that case, no doubt, it was worth while." "Oh, amusement is always worth while. I heard you had a most amusing Christmas at Kirkton. And you go back soon, I believe?" "I should have gone back, Miss Vyner, if my brother had not been too ill to spare me. I have explained to my Rilston friends that I am tied to Ingleby for the present." Here the Stauntons and Florella struck up the swords of the combatants by a rush of questions as to their Yorkshire acquaintances, while Constancy could have bitten out her tongue as she recalled the commonplace feminine spite of her retort on Godfrey. "Worse than any Miss Bennet!" she thought, as the discussions of last summer came back on her memory, and she knew that her sudden confession had been prompted by the determination to make him notice her at any cost. "So, Florella," she said, when the sisters were at home and alone together, "you needn't have been so angry with me for that bit of frivol last autumn. You see he has neither broken his heart nor gone to the ends of the earth, and given up Waynflete to Guy. He has got engaged to Jeanie--and her money." "You heard him say that his brother wanted him," said Florella, after a moment. "How could he go away?" "Poor Guy!" said Cosy. "He is a nice fellow. I hope he won't die of his heart complaint! But Flo, speak out! What would you have done if you had had such a letter? I couldn't tell him I liked him--when--when I didn't mean to." "I think you do," said Florella, "whether you mean to or not. But you might have helped the best side of him to make amends for what he had done. You left him all to himself." "Well," said Cosy, after a half-offended pause, "if I _am_ a fool, at least I have the sense to know it." She threw herself into a chair by the fire, and sat staring into the blaze with her chin on her hands. She, brilliant, admired, successful, had done a small and a stupid thing, and her pride was stung by the knowledge. The sleeping soul began to stir within her. Life had been to her like the music described by hearsay--a sound without a tune. Her clever mind had dealt with words and signs, while the undeveloped and childish spirit had never realised their meaning. If Godfrey, as she had sometimes called him, had been "only a great boy," poor Cosy herself was still but a great girl, and a selfish girl too, shrinking from the disturbance of passionate emotion. In such a form she experienced the "conviction of sin," and the change in her mental outlook was so great that it might well be called a conversion, as conversions come to such as she.