“So we agreed that we would write, and share each other’s feelings and thoughts as far as we could.  And I hoped that any other idea with regard to me would soon pass out of Lord Tatham’s mind.  I did—­most sincerely; and I think he believes that I did.  How good and dear he always was to me!—­how much I have learnt from him!  And yet I am afraid it was all very blind, and ill-considered—­perhaps very selfish—­on my part.  I did not understand what harm I might do; though I hope with all my heart—­and believe—­that I have not done anything irreparable.  It is very hard for me to regret it; because all my life I shall be the richer and the wiser for having known so good a man; one so true, so unselfish, so high-minded.  Women so rarely come to know men, except in marriage, or through books; and your son’s character has sweetened and ennobled whole sides of life for me—­forever.

“But if—­in return—­I have given him pain—­and you, who love him!  I was always afraid of you—­but I would have done anything in the world to serve you.  Will you let me have a little word—­just to tell me that you forgive, and understand.  I ask it with a very sore heart—­full, full of gratitude to him and to you, for all your goodness.”

* * * * *

Victoria was oddly affected by this letter.  It both touched and angered her.  She was touched by what it said, deeply touched; and angered by what it omitted.  And yet how could the writer have said anything more!—­or anything else!  Victoria admitted that her thoughts had run far beyond what she knew—­in any true sense—­or had any right to conjecture.  Nevertheless the fact in her belief remained a fact, that but for Faversham and some disastrous influence he had gained over her almost at once, Harry would have had his chance with Lydia Penfold.  As it was, she had been allowing Harry to offer her his most intimate thoughts and feelings, while she was actually falling in love with his inferior.  This was what enraged Victoria.  Whatever Cyril Boden might say, it seemed to her maternal jealousy something equivalent to the betrayal of a sacred confidence.

Yet clearly she could not say so to Lydia Penfold—­nor could Lydia confess it!  She wrote as follows: 

“MY DEAR MISS PENFOLD: 

“It was very kind of you to write to me, I am sure you meant no harm, and I do not pretend to judge another person’s conduct by what I might myself have thought wisest or best.  But I think we all have to learn that the deepest feelings in life are very sensitive, and very incalculable things; and that the old traditions and conventions respecting them have probably much more to say for themselves than we like to admit—­especially in our youth.  Men and women in middle life may have true and intimate friendships without any thought of marriage.  I doubt whether this is possible for young people, though I know it is the fashion nowadays to behave as though it were.  And especially is it difficult—­or impossible—­where there has been any thought of love—­on either side.  For love is the great, unmanageable, explosive thing, which cannot be tamed down, at a word, into friendship—­not in youth at any rate.  The attempt to treat it as a negligible quantity can only bring suffering and misunderstanding.