“But I must not preach to you like this.  I am sure you know—­now—­that what I say has truth in it.  Thank you again for the feeling that dictated your letter.  Harry is very well and very busy.  We hoped to go to London before Christmas, but this most difficult and unhappy affair of Mrs. Melrose and her daughter detains us.  Whether we shall obtain justice for them in the end I do not know.  At present the adverse influences are very strong—­and the indignation of all decent people seems to make no difference.  Mr. Faversham’s position is indeed difficult to understand.

“Please remember me kindly to your mother and sister.  Next year I hope we shall be able to meet as usual.  But for the present, as you and Harry have agreed, it is better not.”

* * * * *

Victoria was extremely dissatisfied with this letter when she had done it.  But she knew very well that Harry would have resented a single harsh word from her toward the misguided Lydia; and she did not know how better to convey the warning that burnt on her lips with regard to Faversham.

* * * * *

Lydia received Victoria’s letter on the day of her return to the cottage.  Her mother remained in London.

Susy welcomed her sister affectionately, but with the sidelong looks of the observer.  Ever since the evening of Lady Tatham’s visit when Lydia had come back with white face and red eyes from her walk with Harry Tatham, and when the following night had been broken for Susy by the sound of her sister’s weeping in the room next to her, it had been recognized by the family that the Tatham affair had ended in disaster, and that Duddon was henceforth closed to them.  Lydia told her mother enough to plunge that poor lady into even greater wonder than before at the hopeless divergence of young people to-day from the ways and customs of their grandmothers; and then begged piteously that nothing more might be said to her.  Mrs. Penfold cried and kissed her; and for many days tears fell on the maternal knitting needles, as the fading vision of Lydia, in a countess’ coronet, curtesying to her sovereign, floated mockingly through the maternal mind.  To Susy Lydia was a little more explicit; but she showed herself so sunk in grief and self-abasement, that Susy had not the heart for either probing or sarcasm.  It was not a broken heart, but a sore conscience—­a warm, natural penitence, that she beheld.  Lydia was not yet “splendid,” and Susy could not make anything tragic out of her.

At least, on what appeared.  And not even Susy’s impatience could penetrate beyond appearance.  She longed to say, “Enough of the Tatham affair—­now let us come to business.  How do you stand with Claude Faversham?” A number of small indications pointed her subtly, irresistibly in that direction.  But the strength of Lydia’s personality stood guard over her secret—­if she had one.

All Susy could do was to give Lydia the gossip of the neighbourhood, which she did—­copiously, including the “cutting” of Faversham at the County Club, by Colonel Barton and others.  Lydia said nothing.