She might be indifferent to the protection of Dudley’s name.  Robust, sanguine, Victor’s child, she might—­her mother listened to a devil’s whisper—­but no; Nesta’s aim was at the heights; she was pure in mind as in body.  No, but the world would bring the accusation; and the world would trace the cause:  Heredity, it would say.  Would it say falsely?  Nataly harped on the interrogation until she felt her existence dissolving to a dark stain of the earth, and she found herself wondering at the breath she drew, doubting that another would follow, speculating on the cruel force which keeps us to the act of breathing.—­Though I could draw wild blissful breath if I were galloping across the moors! her worn heart said to her youth:  and out of ken of the world, I could regain a portion of my self-esteem.  Nature thereat renewed her old sustainment with gentle murmurs, that were supported by Dr. Themison’s account of the virtuous married lady who chafed at the yoke on behalf of her sex, and deemed the independent union the ideal.  Nataly’s brain had a short gallop over moorland.  It brought her face to face with Victor’s girl, and she dropped once more to her remorse in herself and her reproaches of Nesta.  The girl had inherited from her father something of the cataract’s force which won its way by catching or by mastering, uprooting, ruining!

In the morning she was heavily asleep.  Victor left word with Nesta, that the dear mother was not to be disturbed.  Consequently, when Dudley called to see Mrs. Victor Radnor, he was informed that Miss Radnor would receive him.

Their interview lasted an hour.

Dudley came to Victor in the City about luncheon time.

His perplexity of countenance was eloquent.  He had, before seeing the young lady, digested an immense deal more, as it seemed to him, than any English gentleman should be asked to consume.  She now referred him to her father, who had spent a day in Brighton, and would, she said, explain whatever there was to be explained.  But she added, that if she was expected to abandon a friend, she could not.  Dudley had argued with her upon the nature of friendship, the measurement of its various dues; he had lectured on the choice of friends, the impossibility for young ladies, necessarily inexperienced, to distinguish the right class of friends, the dangers they ran in selecting friends unwarranted by the stamp of honourable families.

‘And what did Fredi say to that?’ Victor inquired.

’Miss Radnor said—­I may be dense, I cannot comprehend—­that the precepts were suitable for seminaries of Pharisees.  When it is a question of a young lady associating with a notorious woman!’

’Not notorious.  You spoil your case if you “speak extremely,” as a friend says.  I saw her yesterday.  She worships “Miss Radnor."’

Nesta will know when she is older; she will thank me,’ said Dudley hurriedly.  ’As it is at present, I may reckon, I hope, that the association ceases.  Her name:  I have to consider my family.’