She had not again learned to love her cousin.

She was as firmly sure as ever that she could never love him more.

He had insulted her love; and though she had forgiven him and again enrolled him among her dearest friends, she could never again feel for him that passion which a woman means when she acknowledges that she is in love.

That, as regarded her and George Vavasor, was over.

But, nevertheless, there had been a something of romance during those days in Switzerland which she feared she would regret when she found herself settled at Nethercoats.