“A friend of yours, my dear?” she asked, innocently.  “Suppose you introduce us to each other.”

Clara confusedly introduced the young gentleman.

“Mr. Francis Aldersley, Lucy.  Mr. Aldersley belongs to the Arctic expedition.”

“Attached to the expedition?” Mrs. Crayford repeated.  “I am attached to the expedition too—­in my way.  I had better introduce myself, Mr. Aldersley, as Clara seems to have forgotten to do it for me.  I am Mrs. Crayford.  My husband is Lieutenant Crayford, of the Wanderer.  Do you belong to that ship?”

“I have not the honor, Mrs. Crayford.  I belong to the Sea-mew.”

Mrs. Crayford’s superb eyes looked shrewdly backward and forward between Clara and Francis Aldersley, and saw the untold sequel to Clara’s story.  The young officer was a bright, handsome, gentleman-like lad.  Just the person to seriously complicate the difficulty with Richard Wardour!  There was no time for making any further inquiries.  The band had begun the prelude to the waltz, and Francis Aldersley was waiting for his partner.  With a word of apology to the young man, Mrs. Crayford drew Clara aside for a moment, and spoke to her in a whisper.

“One word, my dear, before you return to the ball-room.  It may sound conceited, after the little you have told me; but I think I understand your position now, better than you do yourself.  Do you want to hear my opinion?”

“I am longing to hear it, Lucy!  I want your opinion; I want your advice.”

“You shall have both in the plainest and fewest words.  First, my opinion:  You have no choice but to come to an explanation with Mr. Wardour as soon as he returns.  Second, my advice:  If you wish to make the explanation easy to both sides, take care that you make it in the character of a free woman.”

She laid a strong emphasis on the last three words, and looked pointedly at Francis Aldersley as she pronounced them.  “I won’t keep you from your partner any longer, Clara,” she resumed, and led the way back to the ball-room.

Chapter 3.

The burden on Clara’s mind weighs on it more heavily than ever, after what Mrs. Crayford has said to her.  She is too unhappy to feel the inspiriting influence of the dance.  After a turn round the room, she complains of fatigue.  Mr. Francis Aldersley looks at the conservatory (still as invitingly cool and empty as ever); leads her back to it; and places her on a seat among the shrubs.  She tries—­very feebly—­to dismiss him.

“Don’t let me keep you from dancing, Mr. Aldersley.”

He seats himself by her side, and feasts his eyes on the lovely downcast face that dares not turn toward him.  He whispers to her: 

“Call me Frank.”

She longs to call him Frank—­she loves him with all her heart.  But Mrs. Crayford’s warning words are still in her mind.  She never opens her lips.  Her lover moves a little closer, and asks another favor.  Men are all alike on these occasions.  Silence invariably encourages them to try again.