I don’t remember clearly how it all happened now. But I know that Lady Cuxhaven sent mamma some money, to be applied to my education, as she called it; and mamma seemed very much put out and in very low spirits, and she and I didn’t get on at all together. So, of course, I never ventured to name the hateful twenty pounds to her, but went on trying to think that, if I was to marry Mr. Preston, it need never be paid—very mean and wicked, I daresay; but oh, Molly, I’ve been punished for it, for now I abhor that man.”

“But why? When did you begin to dislike him? You seem to have taken it very passively all this time.”

“I don’t know. It was growing upon me, before I went to that school at Boulogne. He made me feel as if I was in his power; and, by too often reminding me of my engagement to him, he made me critical of his words and ways. There was an insolence in his manner to mamma, too. Ah! you’re thinking that I’m not too respectful a daughter—and perhaps not; but I couldn’t bear his covert sneers at her faults, and I hated his way of showing what he called his ‘love’ for me. Then, after I had been a semestre at Mdme. Lefèbre’s, a new English girl came—a cousin of his, who knew but little of me. Now, Molly, you must forget as soon as I’ve told you what I’m going to say; and she used to talk so much and perpetually about her cousin Robert—he was the great man of the family, evidently—and how he was so handsome, and every lady of the land in love with him—a lady of title into the bargain”——

“Lady Harriet! I daresay,” said Molly indignantly.

“I don’t know,” said Cynthia wearily. “I didn’t care at the time, and I don’t care now; for she went on to say there was a very pretty widow too, who made desperate love to him. He had often laughed with them at all her little advances, which she thought he didn’t see through. And, oh! and this was the man I had promised to marry, and gone into debt to, and written love-letters to! So now you understand it all, Molly.”

“No, I don’t yet. What did you do, on hearing how he had spoken about your mother?”

“There was but one thing to do. I wrote and told him I hated him, and would never, never marry him, and would pay him back his money and the interest on it as soon as ever I could.”

“Well?”

“And Mdme. Lefèbre brought me back my letter, unopened, I will say; and told me that she didn’t allow letters to gentlemen to be sent by the pupils of her establishment unless she had previously seen their contents. I told her he was a family friend, the agent who managed mamma’s affairs—I really could not stick at the truth; but she wouldn’t let it go; and I had to see her burn it, and to give her my promise I wouldn’t write again before she would consent not to tell mamma. So I had to calm down and wait till I came home.”

“But you didn’t see him then; at least, not for some time?”

“No, but I could write; and I began to try and save up my money to pay him.”

“What did he say to your letter?”

“Oh, at first he pretended not to believe I could be in earnest; he thought it was only pique, or a temporary offence, to be apologised for and covered over with passionate protestations.”

“And afterwards?”

“He condescended to threats; and, what is worse, then I turned coward. I couldn’t bear to have it all known and talked about, and my silly letters shown—oh, such letters! I cannot bear to think of them, beginning, ‘My dearest Robert,’ to that man”——