“First of all, tell me,” Gifford said, “has anything happened since last night?  Has Henshaw made any move?”

She took out a note and handed it to him.  “Only that,” she said with an uneasy laugh.

“There must have been some misunderstanding last evening,” Gifford read.  “I cannot think that your not keeping the appointment was intentional.  Anyhow I can wait till to-night, then I shall be at the lane just beyond the church at 7.30.  That you may not repent I hope you have not repented.”  That was all.

“A thinly veiled threat,” Gifford observed.  “The man in his way seems as great a bully as his brother.  May I keep this?  I am going to see Mr. Henshaw presently, and have a serious talk with him.  After which I shall hope to be able to convince you that your troubles are at an end.”

“If you can do that—­” she said.

“The knowledge that I have been of service to you will be my great reward.  I hope I am sufficiently a gentleman not to ask or expect any other.”

She made no reply.  They had entered the little rustic summer-house, and sat down.

“Dick has driven into Branchester,” Edith Morriston said, perhaps to end an embarrassing pause.  “He will not be back till luncheon, so we are not likely to be interrupted.”

“That’s well,” Gifford answered.  “Now please begin what I am most anxious to hear.”

“The story I have to tell you, Mr. Gifford,” Edith Morriston began, “is not a pleasant one and is as humiliating to me to relate as was the experience, the terrible experience, I had to go through.  But to be fair to myself I must be quite frank with you, and am sure you will never give me cause to repent speaking unreservedly.”

“You can rely upon my honour to respect your confidence,” Gifford responded warmly.

“I know I may,” the girl answered.  “Well, then, you must know first of all, that my father married a second time, and he unfortunately chose a woman well connected enough, but heartless and an utter snob.  I suppose men are often blind to these hateful qualities before marriage; doubtless a clever, unscrupulous woman is able to hide her faults when she has the main chance in view.  My stepmother was a good deal younger than my father, and I dare say on the whole made him, socially at any rate, a fairly good wife.  Her one idea was social aggrandizement at any cost, and I unhappily was to fall a victim to it.

“I suppose we ought not to blame her for determining that I ought to marry well; she wanted to do the best for the family and was constitutionally incapable of making allowance for or considering any one’s private feelings.  To make a long story short, my stepmother, in pursuance of her policy, determined that I should marry a certain peer whose name I need not mention.  He was altogether a bad lot, and I soon came to know it.  I received certain warnings, but without them I could see that the man was all wrong, and I told my stepmother what I thought of him.