But she could have overcome that terror--she could have resigned herself to that doom.
No! it was not the fear of the confession itself, or the fear of the consequences which must follow it, that still held her silent.

The horror that daunted her was the horror of owning to Horace and to Lady Janet that she had cheated them out of their love.
Every day Lady Janet was kinder and kinder.

Every day Horace was fonder and fonder of her.

How could she confess to Lady Janet?
how could she own to Horace that she had imposed upon him?
"I can't do it.

They are so good to me--I can't do it!" In that hopeless way it had ended during the seven days that had gone by.