That evening, when he came from his club, he found a note from Lady Ongar.  It was very short, and the blood rushed to his face as he felt ashamed at seeing with how much apparent ease she had answered him.  He had written with difficulty, and had written awkwardly.  But there was nothing awkward in her words: 

Dear harry:—­We are quits now.  I do not know why we should ever meet as enemies.  I shall never feel myself to be an enemy of yours.  I think it would be well that we should see each other, and, if you have no objection to seeing me, I will be at home any evening that you may call.  Indeed, I am at home always in the evening.  Surely, Harry, there can be no reason why we should not meet.  You need not fear that there will be danger in it.

Will you give my compliments to Miss Florence Burton, with my best wishes for her happiness?  Your Mrs. Burton I have seen—­as you may have heard, and I congratulate you on your friend.  Yours always, J. O.

The writing of this letter seemed to have been easy enough, and certainly there was nothing in it that was awkward; but I think that the writer had suffered more in the writing than Harry had done in producing his longer epistle.  But she had known how to hide her suffering, and had used a tone which told no tale of her wounds.  We are quits now, she had said, and she had repeated the words over and over again to herself as she walked up and down her room.  Yes, they were quits now, if the reflection of that fact could do her any good.  She had ill-treated him in her early days; but, as she had told herself so often, she had served him rather than injured him by that ill-treatment.  She had been false to him; but her falsehood had preserved him from a lot which could not have been fortunate.  With such a clog as she would have been round his neck—­with such a wife, without a shilling of fortune, how could he have risen in the world?  No!  Though she had deceived him, she had served him.  Then, after that, had come the tragedy of her life, the terrible days in thinking of which she still shuddered, the days of her husband and Sophie Gordeloup—­that terrible death-bed, those attacks upon her honor, misery upon misery, as to which she never now spoke a word to any one, and as to which she was resolved she never would speak again.  She had sold herself for money, and had got the price, but the punishment of her offence had been very heavy.  And now, in these latter days, she had thought to compensate the man she had loved for the treachery with which she had used him.  That treachery had been serviceable to him, but not the less should the compensation be very rich.  And she would love him too.  Ah! yes, she had always loved him.  He should have it all now—­every thing, if only he would consent to forget that terrible episode in her life, as she would strive to forget it.  All that should remain to remind them of Lord Ongar would be the wealth