The honor of the Cliffords is an empty sound."
Lucy Monckton rose from her chair in genuine agitation. Her better angel
tugged at her heartstrings.
"Forgive me, sir, oh, forgive me!" she cried, bursting into tears. Then
she caught a bitter, threatening glance of her bad angel fixed upon her,
and she said to Monckton, "I can say no more, I can do no more. It was
fourteen years ago--I can't break people's hearts. Hush it up amongst
you. I have made a hero weep; his tears burn me. I don't care for the
man; I'll go no further. You, sir, have taken a deal of trouble and
expense. I dare say Colonel Clifford will compensate you; I leave the
matter with you. No power shall make me act in it any more."
Monckton wrote hastily on his card, and said, quite calmly, "Well, I
really think, madam, you are not fit to take part in such a conference as
this. Compose yourself and retire. I know your mind in the matter better
than you do yourself at this moment, and I will act accordingly."
She retired, and drove away to the Dun Cow, which was the place Monckton
had appointed when he wrote upon the card.
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