are of the meal had
been a glass of milk. She had chosen to take it because Mrs. Cupp had
suggested that tea was "nervous." Emily sat down at the table and filled
a cup for Hester. She knew she would return in a few moments, so set the
cup before Mrs. Osborn's place and waited. She heard the young woman's
footsteps outside, and as the door opened she lifted the glass of milk
to her lips.

She was afterwards absolutely unable to describe to herself clearly what
happened the next moment. In fact, it was the next moment that she saw
Hester spring towards her, and the glass of milk had been knocked from
her hand and rolled, emptying itself, upon the floor. Mrs. Osborn stood
before her, clenching and unclenching her hands.

"Have you drunk any of it?" she demanded.

"No," Emily answered. "I have not."

Hester Osborn dropped into a chair and leaned forward, covering her face
with her hands. She looked like a woman on the verge of an outbreak of
hysteria, only to be held in check by a frenzied effort.

Lady Walderhurst, quite slowly, turned the colour of the milk itself.
But she did nothing but sit still and gaze at Hester.

"Wait a minute." The girl was trying to recover her breath. "Wait till I
can hold myself still. I am going to tell you now. I am going to tell
you."

"Yes," Emily answered faintly.

It seemed to her that she waited twenty minutes before another word was
spoken, that she sat quite that long looking at the thin hands which
seemed to clutch the hidden face. This was a mistake arising from the
intensity of the strain upon her nerves. It was scarcely five minutes
before Mrs. Osborn lowered her hands and laid them, pressed tightly palm
to palm, between her knees.

She spoke in a low voice, such a voice as a listener outside could not
have heard.

"Do you know," she demanded, "what you represent to us--to me and to my
husband--as you sit there?"

Emily shook her head. The movement of disclaimer was easier than speech.
She felt a sort of exhaustion.

"I don't believe you do," said Hester. "You don't seem to realise
anything. Perhaps it's because you are so innocent, perhaps it's because
you are so foolish. You represent the thing that we have the right to
_hate_ most on earth."

"Do _you_ hate me?" asked Emily, trying to adjust herself mentally to
the mad extraordinariness of the situation, and at the same time
scarcely understanding why she asked her question.

"Sometimes I do. When I do not I