to be gracious. She saw her face as the glass reflected it, but she did
not see the changing play of expression which gave it its charm--the
infinite pity, the sympathy, the sweet womanliness which drew towards
her all who were in doubt and in trouble, even as poor slow-moving
Charles Westmacott had been drawn to her that night. She was herself,
she thought, outside the pale of love. But it was very different with
Ida, merry, little, quick-witted, bright-faced Ida. She was born for
love. It was her inheritance. But she was young and innocent. She
must not be allowed to venture too far without help in those dangerous
waters. Some understanding there was between her and Harold Denver. In
her heart of hearts Clara, like every good woman, was a match-maker, and
already she had chosen Denver of all men as the one to whom she could
most safely confide Ida. He had talked to her more than once on the
serious topics of life, on his aspirations, on what a man could do to
leave the world better for his presence. She knew that he was a man of
a noble nature, high-minded and earnest. And yet she did not like this
secrecy, this disinclination upon the part of one so frank and honest as
Ida to tell her what was passing. She would wait, and if she got the
opportunity next day she would lead Harold Denver himself on to this
topic. It was possible that she might learn from him what her sister had
refused to tell her.



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CHAPTER V.