‘You and she are very thick,’ said Musselboro.  ’I suppose you’ll do it best.’  By this time they were in the drawing-room, and the door was closed.  Dalrymple had put his hand on the other man’s arm, and had led him downstairs, out of reach of hearing from the room above.  ’You’ll tell her—­won’t you?’ said Musselboro.  Then Dalrymple tried to think what loving female friend there was who would break the news to the unfortunate woman.  He knew of the Van Sievers, and he knew of the Demolines, and he almost knew that there was no other woman within reach whom he was entitled to regard as closely connected with Mrs Broughton.  He was well aware that the anonymous letter of which Musselboro had just spoken had come from Miss Demolines, and he could not go there for sympathy and assistance.  Nor could he apply to Mrs Van Siever after with had passed this morning.  To Clara Van Siever he would have applied, but that it was impossible he should reach Clara except through her mother.  ‘I suppose I had better go to her,’ he said, after a while.  And then he went, leaving Musselboro in the drawing-room.  ‘I’m so bad with it,’ said Musselboro, ’that I really don’t know how I shall ever go up that court again.’

Conway Dalrymple made his way up the stairs with very slow steps, and as he did so he could not but think seriously of the nature of his friendship with this woman, and could not but condemn himself heartily for the folly and iniquity of his own conduct.  Scores of times he had professed his love to her with half-expressed words, intended to mean nothing, as he said to himself when he tried to excuse himself, but enough to turn her head, even if they did not reach her heart.  Now, this woman was a widow, and it came to be his duty to tell her that she was so.  What if she should claim from him now the love which he had so often proffered to her!  It was not that he feared that she would claim anything from him at this moment—­neither now, nor tomorrow, nor the next day—­but the agony of the present meeting would produce others in which there would be some tenderness mixed with the agony; and so from one meeting to another the thing would progress.  But in this danger before him, it was not of himself that he was thinking, but of her.  How could he assist her at such a time without doing her more injury than benefit?  And, if he did not assist her, who would do so?  He knew her to be heartless; but even heartless people have hearts which can be touched and almost broken by certain sorrows.  Her heart would not be broken by her husband’s death, but it would become very sore if she were utterly neglected.  He was now at the door, with his hand on the lock, and was wondering why she should remain so long within without making herself heard.  Then he opened it, and found her seated in a lounge-chair, with her back to the door, and he could see that she had a volume of a novel in her hand.  He understood it all.  She was pretending to be indifferent to her husband’s