worse off than before the renewal of their friendship. But could it be called friendship? Geoffrey's mother and sisters paid no heed to her; they doubtless considered that she had finally sunk below their horizon; and Geoffrey himself, for all his fine words, most likely thought the same at heart. Of course they would never meet again. And for the rest of her life she would be nothing more than a domestic servant in genteel disguise—happy were the disguise preserved.
However, she had provided a distraction for her gloomy thoughts. With no more delay than was due to its transmission by way of Glasgow, there came a reply from Mr. Cheeseman: two sheets of notepaper. The writer prostrated himself; he had been guilty of shameful behaviour; even Miss Jewell, with all her sweet womanliness, must find it hard to think of him with charity. But let her remember what "the poets" had written about Remorse, and apply to him the most harrowing of their descriptions. He would be frank with her; he would "a plain, unvarnished tale unfold." Whilst away for his holiday he by chance encountered one with whom, in days gone by, he had held tender relations. She was a young widow; his foolish heart was touched; he sacrificed honour to the passing emotion. Their marriage would be delayed, for his affairs were just now anything but flourishing. "Dear Miss Jewell, will you not be my friend, my sister? Alas, I am not a happy man; but it is too late to lament." And so on to the squeezed signature at the bottom of the last page.
Rosamund allowed a fortnight to pass—not before writing, but before her letter was posted. She used a tone of condescension, mingled with airy banter. "From my heart I feel for you, but, as you say, there is no help. I am afraid you are very impulsive—yet I thought that was a fault of youth. Do not give way todespair.
