"There is nothing to tell, except this: the new house was near a
fine country-seat standing in its own park. The owner of the
place was a gentleman named Wardour. He, too, was one of my
father's Kentish friends. He had an only son."

She paused, and played nervously with her fan. Mrs. Crayford
looked at her attentively. Clara's eyes remained fixed on her
fan--Clara said no more. "What was the son's name?" asked Mrs.
Crayford, quietly.

"Richard."

"Am I right, Clara, in suspecting that Mr. Richard Wardour
admired you?"

The question produced its intended effect. The question helped
Clara to go on.

"I hardly knew at first," she said, "whether he admired me or
not. He was very strange in his ways--headstrong, terribly
headstrong and passionate; but generous and affectionate in spite
of his faults of temper. Can you understand such a character?"

"Such characters exist by thousands. I have my faults of temper.
I begin to like Richard already. Go on."

"The days went by, Lucy, and the weeks went by. We were thrown
very much together. I began, little by little, to have some
suspicion of the truth."