Nance pressed her sister's hand with one of her old shy laughs, that sounded infinitely sweet from grown-up lips.

"Clo, I can never get used to your being called 'ma'am.' Do you remember the people at San Domenico, who would call you 'signorina,'

when poor James----?"

She stopped abruptly, colouring at her unconsidered mention of her brother-in-law.

"Clo, tell me all about Tuffnell Place!" she subst.i.tuted, with another sympathetic pressure of her fingers. "Tell me about Lady Diana and Mr.

Tuffnell! I think I should hate to be plain Mister, if my wife had a t.i.tle! And all about Lady Frances Hope and Lord Deerehurst and Mr.

Serracauld! I'm dying to see all the people you put in your letters.

They're like characters in a book--and, of course, you are the heroine!

"Oh, I'm so happy, Clo!" she cried ecstatically--"I'm so happy! Do you care for me? Do you want me much--very much?"

Her dark blue eyes searched Clodagh's face, as they had been wont to search it long ago; for, beneath the pretty manner that time had taught her, her warm, loyal nature had remained unchanged.

And as Clodagh returned her glance, her heart suddenly sank. Until the moment of her meeting with Nance, she had been conscious of only one desire in her regard--the desire to fully confess to her appropriation of the thousand pounds. For, in the lull that had followed the previous night's crisis, she had seen this confession as the sole means of regaining self-respect. Her other follies--her gambling and her extravagances--offered no means of redress; but for this one personal act of weakness she could still do penance. And now, by her very faith, by her very love, Nance had shaken the desire.

This spontaneous, unsuspicious admiration was the sweetest experience that had come into her life. She involuntarily returned the pressure of the clinging fingers, as she drew her sister through the small gate of the station. She was glad to think that there was the drive home, the moments of arrival and of unpacking, before any mention of personal matters could break in upon the present calm.

Outside the station, Nance saw the two dogs for the first time, and insisted upon making friends with them before entering the trap.

"Did you miss Mick dreadfully, when you sent him back to Orristown?"

she asked, when at last she took her seat.

"Dreadfully," Clodagh answered, taking the reins from the groom. "But I didn't know what to do with him when I left the villa. You see, I had no real plans."

"No; no, of course not. But you'll get him back soon?"

"Yes; I want to." Clodagh gathered up the reins, and the pony started forward at a swift trot. "But, do you know, Nance, I have thought of going to Orristown in a month or so. Would you like to come to Ireland?"

"Like to? Oh, Clo, I have dreamt and dreamt of our being at Orristown together--just you and me. Can you picture it? Wearing our oldest clothes--riding and walking and sailing all day long; and making Hannah cook us the most heavenly cakes for tea!"

She clasped her hands rapturously, regardless of her new white gloves.

Clodagh laughed softly and affectionately.

"Oh, you child!" she said, almost enviously.

How sweet and pretty and unaffected she was--this little sister who had suddenly stepped back into her life! An overwhelmingly tender feeling of protectiveness welled up within her--a sudden deep longing to shelter and guard her, to hedge her round with all that is sacred and fine.

"Nance!" she said impulsively, "have you ever thought that I behaved badly to you--behaved unfairly in any way?"

"Unfairly?"

"Yes."

Nance laughed.

"You're dreaming, Clo! How could _you_ behave unfairly?"

"Suppose some one were to tell you that I had?"

"I shouldn't believe, that's all."

"If I were to tell you?" Clodagh's fingers tightened on the reins.

"If you were to tell me that," Nance said, very slowly, "I think it would spoil everything in the world. I believe so--so dreadfully in you. But why talk about it, when it's nonsense?" She shook off the momentary shadow that had fallen between them. "I hate 'ifs,' unless they're very happy ones."

So Clodagh struggled no more with her conscience during the drive along the shady Buckinghamshire roads. Yielding to the spell of Nance's voice, she lulled the knowledge of impending difficulties and opened her ears to the tale of her sister's experiences--of her friends, her acquaintances, her pleasures, her occupations--all poured forth with a perfectly ingenuous egotism that was a refreshment and delight.

Though they remained together all through the morning and afternoon, the sisters had no further opportunity of a _tete-a-tete_. Immediately on their arrival at Tuffnell, Lady Diana had made Nance welcome and had introduced her to her fellow-guests; and the remainder of the day had been spent, first in tennis and croquet, later in a long coach drive, which included a call upon some neighbours of the Tuffnells. Almost immediately after dinner, however, Clodagh had pleaded that Nance was tired, and had borne her off to her own room. There she dismissed Simonetta, and, closing the door, drew forward two chairs to the open window.

"Now!" she said--"at last! What do you think of Tuffnell--and of everybody?" She sank into one of the chairs with a little sigh.

But Nance, instead of answering, tip-toed across the room; and, bending over the back of her chair, gave her a long, impulsive kiss.

"Darling!" she cried. "Clo! You are so lovely. I am so proud of you."

Clodagh pressed her cheeks against the warm lips; then drew Nance round to the side of her chair.

"Talk to me!" she said. "Tell me whether you like Tuffnell?"

Nance gave a little laugh of inconsequent happiness, and nestled down at her sister's feet.

"Tuffnell is heavenly! But there are only four nice people here."

"Four nice people? What do you mean?"

"What I say. There are only four nice people here--you, of course"--she lifted one of Clodagh's hands, and pressed it against her lips--"and Lady Diana Tuffnell--and Mr. Tuffnell--and that nice, fair man with the sunburnt face."

Clodagh withdrew her hand from her sister's.

"Sir Walter Gore?"

"Yes. Don't you think him nice?"

"I----? Oh, I--I don't know."

"But why? He likes you."

Clodagh gave a quick, unsteady laugh, and sank back into her chair.

"Dear little Nance! What a baby you are! If there is one person in the world who does not like me, it is Sir Walter Gore!"

With a sudden movement of interest Nance sat up, and looked at her sister.

"But he does, Clo," she said. "I saw him looking at you over and over again, when you were talking to other people. He likes you. Oh, he _does_ like you! And he doesn't care one bit for Lady Frances Hope, though she follows him everywhere he goes----"