“Yes?”

“Richard must have been watching me.  He suddenly appeared in the garden.  Without waiting for me to invite him, he walked into the room.  I was a little startled as well as surprised, but I managed to hide it.  I said, ‘What is it, Mr. Wardour?’ He stepped close up to me; he said, in his quick, rough way:  ’Clara!  I am going to the African coast.  If I live, I shall come back promoted; and we both know what will happen then.’  He kissed me.  I was half frightened, half angry.  Before I could compose myself to say a word, he was out in the garden again—­he was gone!  I ought to have spoken, I know.  It was not honorable, not kind toward him.  You can’t reproach me for my want of courage and frankness more bitterly than I reproach myself!”

“My dear child, I don’t reproach you.  I only think you might have written to him.”

“I did write.”

“Plainly?”

“Yes.  I told him in so many words that he was deceiving himself, and that I could never marry him.”

“Plain enough, in all conscience!  Having said that, surely you are not to blame.  What are you fretting about now?”

“Suppose my letter has never reached him?”

“Why should you suppose anything of the sort?”

“What I wrote required an answer, Lucy—­asked for an answer.  The answer has never come.  What is the plain conclusion?  My letter has never reached him.  And the Atalanta is expected back!  Richard Wardour is returning to England—­Richard Wardour will claim me as his wife!  You wondered just now if I really meant what I said.  Do you doubt it still?”

Mrs. Crayford leaned back absently in her chair.  For the first time since the conversation had begun, she let a question pass without making a reply.  The truth is, Mrs. Crayford was thinking.

She saw Clara’s position plainly; she understood the disturbing effect of it on the mind of a young girl.  Still, making all allowances, she felt quite at a loss, so far, to account for Clara’s excessive agitation.  Her quick observing faculty had just detected that Clara’s face showed no signs of relief, now that she had unburdened herself of her secret.  There was something clearly under the surface here—­something of importance that still remained to be discovered.  A shrewd doubt crossed Mrs. Crayford’s mind, and inspired the next words which she addressed to her young friend.

“My dear,” she said abruptly, “have you told me all?”

Clara started as if the question terrified her.  Feeling sure that she now had the clew in her hand, Mrs. Crayford deliberately repeated her question, in another form of words.  Instead of answering, Clara suddenly looked up.  At the same moment a faint flush of color appeared in her face for the first time.

Looking up instinctively on her side, Mrs. Crayford became aware of the presence, in the conservatory, of a young gentleman who was claiming Clara as his partner in the coming waltz.  Mrs. Crayford fell into thinking once more.  Had this young gentleman (she asked herself) anything to do with the untold end of the story?  Was this the true secret of Clara Burnham’s terror at the impending return of Richard Wardour?  Mrs. Crayford decided on putting her doubts to the test.