"The amount of the matter is," she said, "I must be paid for the
necklace."

"But," Anne said, with the utmost courtesy, "I understand you have the
necklace."

"That isn't the point," said Madame Beattie. "I have been given a great
deal of annoyance, and I must be compensated for that. What use is a
necklace that I can neither sell nor even pawn? I am in honour bound
"--and then she went on with her story of the Royal Personage, to which
Anne listened humbly enough now, since it seemed to touch Lydia. Madame
Beattie came to her alternative: if nobody paid her money to ensure her
silence, she would go to Weedon Moore and give him the story of
Esther's thievery and of Lydia's. Anne rose from her chair.

"You have come to me," she said, "to ask a thing like that? To ask for
money--"

"You are to influence Jeff," Madame Beattie lisped. "Jeff can do almost
anything he likes if he doesn't waste himself muddling round with
turnips and evening schools. You are to tell him his wife and the imp
are going to be shown up. He wouldn't believe me. He thinks he can
thrash Moore and there'll be an end of it. But it won't be an end of it,
my dear, for there are plenty of channels besides Weedon Moore. You tell
him. If he doesn't care for Esther he may for the little imp. He thinks
she's very nice."

Madame Beattie here, in establishing an understanding, leered a little
in the way of indicating a man's pliability when he thought a woman
"very nice", and this finished the utter revolt of Anne, who stood, her
hand on a chair back, gazing at her.

"I never," said Anne, in a choked way, "I never heard such horrible
things in my life." Then, to her own amazement, for she hardly knew the
sensation and never with such intensity as overwhelmed her now, Anne
felt very angry. "Why," she said, in a tone that sounded like wonder,
"you are a dreadful woman. Do you know what a dreadful woman you are?
Oh, you must go away, Madame Beattie. You must go out of this house at
once. I can't have you here."

Madame Beattie looked up at her in a pleasant indifference, as if it
rather amused her to see the grey dove bristling for its young. Anne
even shook the chair she held, as if she were shaking Madame Beattie.

"I mean it," she said. "I can't have you stay here. My father might
come in and be civil to you, and I won't have anybody civil to you in
this house. Lydia might come in, and Lydia likes you. Why, Madame
Beattie, can you bear to think Lydi