But now as she lay weeping on her bed, tearing herself with remorse, picturing to herself in the most vivid colours all that she had thrown away, telling herself of all that she might have done and all that she might have been, had she not allowed the insane folly of a moment to get the better of her, she received little or no comfort from the reflection that she had been true to her better instincts.

She had told the man that she had refused him because she loved Hugh Stanbury;--at least, as far as she could remember what had passed, she had so told him.

And how mean it was of her to allow herself to be actuated by an insane passion for a man who had never spoken to her of love, and how silly of her afterwards to confess it! Of what service could such a passion be to her life?
Even were it returned, she could not marry such a one as Hugh Stanbury.

She knew enough of herself to be quite sure that were he to ask her to do so to-morrow, she would refuse him.

Better go and be scorched, and bored to death, and buried at the Mandarins, than attempt to regulate a poor household which, as soon as she made one of its number, would be on the sure road to ruin! For a moment there came upon her, not a thought, hardly an idea,--something of a waking dream that she would write to Mr.
Glascock and withdraw all that she had said.