She has been taught to hate you, and she
carries out the teaching--oh, I can see it in every line of her face,
every inflection of her voice: she has been taught to loathe you, my
poor, misjudged friend, and she does not disguise her loathing!"

It is not quite pleasant for a man to hear that his daughter hates him,
and makes no secret of the hatred. Caspar immediately concluded that
Lesley had made some outspoken remarks upon the subject to Mrs. Romaine.
Secretly he felt hurt and angry: outwardly he smiled.

"What would you have?" he said, lightly but bitterly. "Lady Alice has no
doubt indoctrinated her daughter, as you say; all that I can expect from
Lesley is civility. And I generally get that."

"Civility? Between father and daughter? When she ought to be proud of
such a father--proud of all that you are, and all that you have done!
She should be adoring you, slaving for you, ready to sacrifice herself
at your smallest word--and see what she is! A machine, silent, useless,
unwilling--from whom all that you can claim is--civility! Oh, women are
capable sometimes of taking a terrible revenge!"

She threw her hands out with a gesture of despair and deprecation, which
was really fine in its way; then she rose from her chair, went to the
mantelpiece, and stood with her face bent upon her clasped hands. Caspar
rose too, and stood on the hearthrug beside her, looking down at the
pretty ruffled head, with something very like affection in his eye.

He did not quite understand this emotion of hers, but its sincerity
touched as well as puzzled him. For she was sincere as far as he was
concerned, and this sincerity gave her a certain amount of power, such
as sincerity always gives. The ring of true feeling in her voice could
not be counterfeited, and Caspar was flattered by it, as any man would
have been flattered at having excited so much sympathy in the heart of a
talented and beautiful woman.

He knew that Alice had been jealous of Rosalind Romaine, but, he
thought, quite unreasonably so. Poor Rosalind, tied to a dry old stick
of a husband, to whom she did her duty most thoroughly, was naturally
glad to talk now and then to a man who knew something of Art and Life.
That was simple enough, and he had been glad of her interest and
sympathy, especially as these were denied to him by his wife. There was
nothing for Lady Alice to be jealous about. And he had dismissed the
matter impatiently from his thoughts. Alice had left