For his own sake, then, as well as for her mother's memory, this match must be prevented.

And yet how powerless she was to prevent it! What could she do?
Could Harold aid her?
Perhaps.

Or Ida?
At least she would tell her sister and see what she could suggest.
Ida was in her boudoir, a tiny little tapestried room, as neat and dainty as herself, with low walls hung with Imari plaques and with pretty little Swiss brackets bearing blue Kaga ware, or the pure white Coalport china.

In a low chair beneath a red shaded standing lamp sat Ida, in a diaphanous evening dress of mousseline de soie, the ruddy light tinging her sweet childlike face, and glowing on her golden curls.
She sprang up as her sister entered, and threw her arms around her.
"Dear old Clara! Come and sit down here beside me.

I have not had a chat for days.