mont, a spectre darker than the rest—remorse. Whatever sorrow might be hanging over her head, and her punishment might be greater than she could bear, she bitterly acknowledged that it would be just.
At this moment a note was brought in, its perfume reached her before itself. She knew it was from Sir George.
"Any answer?" asked she, with a careless coldness, belied by her flushed cheek and trembling hand.
"None," replied the servant; and Lady Marchmont was left alone; only then had she courage to open it. It contained a few hasty lines:—
"How have I offended you? Twice have I called this morning, and each time you have been peremptorily denied. What unknown crime, Henrietta—if I dare still call you so—have I committed? Shall you be at Lady Townshend's masked ball to-night? In the course of the evening I shall send you some flowers; I implore you to wear them. Not but
