It was all very well as long as there was need of it, but why did it afflict her in this torturing form now that she desired to rest, to think of what she had gained, of what hope she might reasonably nourish?  The purely selfish project which, in her desperation, had seemed the only resource remaining to her against a life of intolerable desolateness, was taking hold upon her in a way she could not understand.  Had she not already made a discovery that surpassed all expectation?  Sidney Kirkwood was not bound to another woman; why could she not accept that as so much clear gain, and deliberate as to her next step?  She had been fully prepared for the opposite state of things, prepared to strive against any odds, to defy all probabilities, all restraints; why not thank her fortune and plot collectedly now that the chances were so much improved?

But from the beginning of her interview with him, Clara knew that something more entered into her designs on Sidney than a cold self-interest.  She had never loved him; she never loved anyone; yet the inclinations of her early girlhood had been drawn by the force of the love he offered her, and to this day she thought of him with a respect and liking such as she had for no other man.  When she heard from her father that Sidney had forgotten her, had found some one by whom his love was prized, her instant emotion was so like a pang of jealousy that she marvelled at it.  Suppose fate had prospered her, and she had heard in the midst of triumphs that Sidney Kirkwood, the working man in Clerkenwell, was going to marry a girl he loved, would any feeling of this kind have come to her?  Her indifference would have been complete.  It was calamity that made her so sensitive.  Self-pity longs for the compassion of others.  That Sidney, who was once her slave, should stand aloof in freedom now that she wanted sympathy so sorely, this was a wound to her heart.  That other woman had robbed her of something she could not spare.

Jane Snowdon, too!  She found it scarcely conceivable that the wretched little starveling of Mrs. Peckover’s kitchen should have grown into anything that a man like Sidney could love.  To be sure, there was a mystery in her lot.  Clara remembered perfectly how Scawthorne pointed out of the cab at the old man Snowdon, and said that he was very rich.  A miser, or what?  More she had never tried to discover.  Now Sidney himself had hinted at something in Jane’s circumstances which, he professed, put it out of the question that he could contemplate marrying her.  Had he told her the truth?  Could she in fact consider him free?  Might there not be some reason for his wishing to keep a secret?