of another.  As she would immolate herself without hesitation if the necessity should exist, so would she see Florence Burton destroyed without a twinge of remorse if the destruction of Florence would serve the purpose which she had in view.  You and I, oh reader, may feel that the man for whom all this was to be done was not worth the passion.  He had proved himself to be very far from such worth.  But the passion, nevertheless, was there, and the woman was honest in what she was saying.

After this, Mrs Burton got herself out of the room as soon as she found an opening which allowed her to go.  In making her farewell speech, she muttered some indistinct apology for the visit which she had been bold enough to make.  “Not at all,” said Lady Ongar.  “You have been quite right; you are fighting your battle for the friend you love bravely; and were it not that the cause of the battle must, I fear, separate us hereafter, I should be proud to know one who fights so well for her friends.  And when this is all over and has been settled, in whatever way it may be settled, let Miss Burton know from me that I have been taught to hold her name and character in the highest possible esteem.”  Mrs. Burton made no attempt at further speech, but left the room with a low courtesy.

Till she found herself out in the street, she was unable to think whether she had done most harm or most good by her visit to Bolton Street; whether she had in any way served Florence, or whether she had simply confessed to Florence’s rival the extent of her sister’s misery.  That Florence herself would feel the latter to be the case when she should know it all, Mrs. Burton was well aware.  Her own ears had tingled with shame as Harry Clavering had been discussed as a grand prize for which her sister was contending with another woman, and contending with so small a chance of success.  It was terrible to her that any woman dear to her should seem to seek for a man’s love.  And the audacity with which Lady Ongar bad proclaimed her own feelings had been terrible also to Cecilia.  She was aware that she was meddling with things which were foreign to her nature, and which would be odious to her husband.  But yet, was not the battle worth fighting?  It was not to be endured that Florence should seek after this thing; but, after all, the possession of the thing in question was the only earthly good that could give any comfort to poor Florence.  Even Cecilia, with all her partiality for Harry, felt that he was not worth the struggle; but it was for her now to estimate him at the price which Florence might put upon him—­not at her own price.