er has been served at Mainstairs to-day, I believe; and
the police have at last plucked up their courage to turn those shiftless
people out. There, too, I understand, Lady Tatham, you have been
meddling."

"I have been trying to undo some of your wrong-doing," she said, with
emotion. "And now--before I go--you shall not prevent me from saying that
I regard it perhaps as your last and worst crime to have perverted the
conscience of this young man! He has been well thought of till now: a
decent fellow sprung from decent people. You are making an outcast--a
pariah of him. And you think _money_ will compensate him! When you and I
knew each other, Edmund"--the name slipped out--"you had a _mind_--one of
the shrewdest I ever knew. I appeal to that. It is not so much now that
you are wicked or cruel--you are playing the _fool_! And you are teaching
this young man to do the same."

She stood confronting him, holding herself tensely erect--a pale,
imperious figure--the embodiment of all the higher ideals and traditions
of the class to which they both belonged.

In her agitation she had dropped her glove. Melrose picked it up.

"On that I think, Lady Tatham, we will say farewell. I regret I have not
been able to oblige you. My wife comes from a needy class--accustomed to
manage on a little. My daughter has not been brought up to luxury. Had
she remained with me, of course, the case would have been different. But
you will find they will do very well on what I have provided for them. I
advise you not to waste your pity. And as for Mr. Faversham, he will take
good care of himself. He frames excellently. And I hope before long to
see him married--to a very suitable young lady."

They remained looking at each other, for a few seconds, in silence. Then
Victoria said quietly, with a forward step:

"I bid you good evening."

He stood at the door, his fingers on the handle, his eyes glittering and
malicious.

"I should have liked to have shown you some of my little collections,"
he said, smiling. "That _verre eglomisee_, for instance"--he pointed to
it--"it's magnificent, though rather decadent. They have nothing like it
in London or Paris. Really--you must go?"

He threw the door open, bowing profoundly.

"Dixon!"

A voice responded from the farther end of the corridor.

"Tell her ladyship's car to come round. Excuse my coming to the door,
Lady Tatham. I am an old man."

The car sped once more through the gloom of the par