She was not long in reaching a conclusion which was not flattering to Ellis.  Mr. Ellis came often to the house, and she had enjoyed his society in a friendly way.  That he had found her pleasant company had been very evident.  She had never taken his attentions seriously, however, or regarded his visits as made especially to her, nor had the rest of the family treated them from that point of view.  Her engagement to Tom Delamere, though not yet formally ratified, was so well understood by the world of Wellington that Mr. Ellis would, scarcely have presumed to think of her as anything more than a friend.

This revelation of her aunt’s, however, put a different face upon his conduct.  Certain looks and sighs and enigmatical remarks of Ellis, to which she had paid but casual attention and attached no particular significance, now recurred to her memory with a new meaning.  He had now evidently tried, in a roundabout way, to besmirch Tom’s character and undermine him in her regard.  While loving Tom, she had liked Ellis well enough, as a friend; but he had abused the privileges of friendship, and she would teach him a needed lesson.

Nevertheless, Mrs. Ochiltree’s story had given Clara food for thought.  She was uneasily conscious, after all, that there might be a grain of truth in what had been said, enough, at least, to justify her in warning Tom to be careful, lest his enemies should distort some amiable weakness into a serious crime.

She put this view of the case to Tom at their next meeting, assuring him, at the same time, of her unbounded faith and confidence.  She did not mention Ellis’s name, lest Tom, in righteous indignation, might do something rash, which he might thereafter regret.  If any subtler or more obscure motive kept her silent as to Ellis, she was not aware of it; for Clara’s views of life were still in the objective stage, and she had not yet fathomed the deepest recesses of her own consciousness.

Delamere had the cunning of weakness.  He knew, too, better than any one else could know, how much truth there was in the rumors concerning him, and whether or not they could be verified too easily for him to make an indignant denial.  After a little rapid reflection, he decided upon a different course.

“Clara,” he said with a sigh, taking the hand which she generously yielded to soften any suggestion of reproach which he may have read into her solicitude, “you are my guardian angel.  I do not know, of course, who has told you this pack of lies,—­for I can see that you have heard more than you have told me,—­but I think I could guess the man they came from.  I am not perfect, Clara, though I have done nothing of which a gentleman should be ashamed.  There is one sure way to stop the tongue of calumny.  My home life is not ideal,—­grandfather is an old, weak man, and the house needs the refining and softening influence of a lady’s presence.  I do not love club life; its ideals are not elevating.  With you by my side, dearest, I should be preserved from every influence except the purest and the best.  Don’t you think, dearest, that the major might be induced to shorten our weary term of waiting?”