eve the same?"

"If they were wrong enough," said Beatrice, "and through their fault.
Surely we are taught to believe that, Mistress Torridon?"

The elder woman said nothing at all, and went on with her soup. Her
silence was almost more formidable than her speech, and she knew that,
and contrived to make it offensive. Beatrice paid no sort of attention
to it, however; and without looking at her again began to talk
cheerfully to Sir James about her journey from town. Margaret watched
her, fascinated; her sedate beautiful face, her lace and jewels, her
white fingers, long and straight, that seemed to endorse the impression
of strength that her carriage and manner of speaking suggested; as one
might watch a swordsman between the rounds of a duel and calculate his
chances. She knew very well that her mother would not take her first
repulse easily; and waited in anxiety for the next clash of swords.

Beatrice seemed perfectly fearless, and was talking about the King with
complete freedom, and yet with a certain discretion too.

"He will have his way," she said. "Who can doubt that?"

Lady Torridon saw an opening for a wound, and leapt at it.

"As he had with Master More," she put in.

Beatrice turned her head a little, but made no answer; and there was not
the shadow of wincing on her steady face.

"As he had with Master More," said Lady Torridon a little louder.

"We must remember that he has my Lord Cromwell to help him," observed
Beatrice tranquilly.

Lady Torridon looked at her again. Even now she could scarcely believe
that this stranger could treat her with such a supreme indifference. And
there was a further sting, too, in the girl's answer, for all there
understood the reference to Ralph; and yet again it was impossible to
take offence.

Margaret looked at her father, half-frightened, and saw again a look of
anxiety in his eyes; he was crumbling his bread nervously as he answered
Beatrice.

"My Lord Cromwell--" he began.

"My Lord Cromwell has my son Ralph under him," interrupted his wife.
"Perhaps you did not know that, Mistress Atherton."

Margaret again looked quickly up; but there was still no sign of wincing
on those scarlet lips, or beneath the black eyebrows.

"Why, of course, I knew it," said Beatrice, looking straight at her with
large, innocent eyes, "that was why--"

She stopped; and Lady Torridon really roused now, made a false step.

"Yes?" she said. "You did not end your sentence?"