Selina too cried a little, and said that she should like to help in paying the debt, if Mr. Ascott had no objection.  And then she turned back to her white splendors, and became absorbed in the annoyance of there being far too much clematis and far too little orange blossom in the bridal bonnet—­which it was now too late to change.  A little, also, she vexed herself about the risk of confiding in Miss Balquidder, lest by any chance the story might get round to Russell Square; and was urgent that at least nothing should be said or done until after to-morrow.  She was determined to be married, and dreaded any slip between the cup and lip.

But Hilary was resolute.  “I said that in two days the matter should be arranged, and so it must be, or the man will think we too break our promises.”

“You can assure him to the contrary,” said Selina, with dignity.  “In fact, why can’t you arrange with him without going at all to Miss Balquidder?”

Again the fierce, bitter expression returned to Hilary’s face.

“You forget, Miss Balquidder’s honest name is his only guarantee against the dishonesty of ours.”

“Hilary, you disgrace us—­disgrace me—­speaking in such a way.  Are we not gentle women?”

“I don’t know, Selina.  I don’t seem to know or to feel any thing, except that I would live on bread and water in order to live peaceably and honestly.  Oh, will it ever, ever be?”

She walked up and down the parlor, disarranging the white draperies which lay about, feeling unutterable contempt for them and for her sister.  Angry and miserable, with every nerve quivering, she was at war with the whole world.

This feeling lasted even when, after some discussion, she gained her point and was on her way to call on Miss Balquidder.  She went round and round the Square many times, trying to fix in her mind word for word what she meant to say; revealing no more of the family history than was absolutely necessary, and stating her business in the briefest, hardest, most matter-of-fact way—­putting it as a transaction between employer and employed, in which there was no more favor asked or bestowed than could possibly be avoided.  And as the sharp east wind blew across her at every corner, minute by minute she felt herself growing more fierce, and hard, and cold.

“This will never do.  I shall be wicked by-and-by.  I must go in and get it over.”

Perhaps it was as well.  Well for her, morally as physically, that there should have been that sudden change from the blighting weather outside to the warm, well-lighted room where the good rich woman sat at her early and solitary tea.

Very solitary it looked—­the little table in the centre of that large handsome parlor, with the one cup and saucer, the one easy-chair.  And as Hilary entered she noticed, amidst all this comfort and luxury, the still, grave, almost sad expression which solitary people always get to wear.