"Broken your engagement with Philip? Why, what has he done?" Lady Clive exclaims.
"Nothing," Lady Vera answers, meekly as a child.
"Nothing?" the lady repeats, half-angrily. "Nothing? Then why have you thrown him over, Lady Vera? Did you tire of him so soon? I did not know that you were a flirt."
"Hush, Nella, you shall not blame her," her brother exclaims, sternly.
"You see Philip is not angry with me, Lady Clive," Vera says, entreatingly. "Indeed I am not a flirt. I love him dearly, but I cannot be his wife. There are reasons," she almost chokes over the word, "that—that you will know soon. You will see I was not to blame. Oh, Lady Clive, do not be angry with me."
"I will not, dear," answers the gentle-hearted lady, kissing the sweet, quivering lips of the wretched girl. "I do not understand you, but if Philip is not angry with you, neither can I be. Yet I am very sorry that I shall not have you for my sister."
With a stifled sob Lady Vera breaks from her clasp and flies up to her own room. She does not appear at breakfast.
At luncheon she is so pale and sad and wretched-looking that it makes one's heart ache to see her.
At night they attend a ball, from which Colonel Lockhart excuses himself on the plea of indisposition, and at which the rich Americans also fail to put in an appearance.