had failed in her attempt to execute the contract.  But now as she lay weeping on her bed, tearing herself with remorse, picturing to herself in the most vivid colours all that she had thrown away, telling herself of all that she might have done and all she might have been, had she not allowed the insane folly of a moment to get the better of her, she received little or no comfort from the reflection that she had been true to her better instincts.  She had told the man that she had refused him because she loved Hugh Stanbury at least, as far as she could remember what had passed, she had so told him.  And how mean it was of her to allow herself to be actuated by an insane passion for a man who had never spoken to her of love, and how silly of her afterwards to confess it!  Of what service could such a passion be to her life?  Even were it returned, she could not marry such a one as Hugh Stanbury.  She knew enough of herself to be quite sure that were he to ask her to do so tomorrow, she would refuse him.  Better go and be scorched, and bored to death, and buried at the Mandarins, than attempt to regulate a poor household which, as soon as she made one of its number, would be on the sure road to ruin!  For a moment there came upon her, not a thought, hardly an idea, something of a waking dream that she would write to Mr Glascock and withdraw all that she had said.  Were she to do so he would probably despise her, and tell her that he despised her but there might be a chance.  It was possible that such a declaration would bring him back to her and did it not bring him back to her she would only be where she was, a poor lost, shipwrecked creature, who had flung herself upon the rocks and thrown away her only chance of a prosperous voyage across the ocean of life; her only chance, for she was not like other girls, who at any rate remain on the scene of action, and may refit their spars and still win their way.  For there were to be no more seasons in London, no more living in Curzon Street, no renewed power of entering the ball-rooms and crowded staircases in which high-born wealthy lovers can be conquered.  A great prospect had been given to her, and she had flung it aside!  That letter of retractation was, however, quite out of the question.  The reader must not suppose that she had ever thought that she could write it.  She thought of nothing but of coming misery and remorse.  In her wretchedness she fancied that she had absolutely disclosed to the man who loved her the name of him whom she had been mad enough to say that she loved.  But what did it matter?  Let it be as it might, she was destroyed.

The next morning she came down to breakfast pale as a ghost; and they who saw her knew at once that she had done that which had made her a wretched woman.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE STANBURY CORRESPONDENCE