"Now we have come to it at last!" he said. "You can't love my nephew
Hugh. And you won't tell me the reason why, because your sweet temper
shrinks from making me angry. Shall I mention the reason for you, my
dear? I can do it in two words--Lord Harry."

She made no reply; she showed no sign of feeling at what he had just
said. Her head sank a little; her hands clasped themselves on her lap;
the obstinate resignation which can submit to anything hardened her
face, stiffened her figure--and that was all.

The banker was determined not to spare her.

"It's easy to see," he resumed, "that you have not got over your
infatuation for that vagabond yet. Go where he may, into the vilest
places and among the lowest people, he carries your heart along with
him. I wonder you are not ashamed of such an attachment as that."

He had stung her at last. She roused herself, and answered him.

"Harry has led a wild life," she said; "he has committed serious
faults, and he may live to do worse than he has done yet. To what
degradation, bad company, and a bad bringing-up may yet lead him, I
leave his enemies to foresee. But I tell you this, he has redeeming
qualities which you, and people like you, are not good Christians
enough to discover. He has friends who can still appreciate him--your
nephew, Arthur Mountjoy, is one of them. Oh, I know it by Arthur's
letters to me! Blame Lord Harry as you may, I tell you he has the
capacity for repentance in him, and one day--when it is too late, I
dare say--he will show it. I can never be his wife. We are parted,