plete failure;
she was afraid of her husband's clouded brow, still more afraid of her
niece's firmly closed mouth, most afraid of all at the thought of Lady
Caroline's displeasure. Nervous and overwrought, anxious to conciliate
all parties, and afraid of making matters worse, she timidly went into
Erica's room, and after beating about the bush for a minute or two,
plunged rashly into the sore subject.

"I am so sorry, dear, about tonight," she said. "I wish it could have
been prevented."

Erica, standing up straight and tall in her velveteen dress, with a
white shawl half thrown back from her shoulders, looked to her aunt
terribly dignified and uncompromising.

"I can't say that I thought them courteous," she replied.

"It was altogether unfortunate," said Mrs. Fane-Smith, hurriedly. "I
hoped your name would not transpire; I ought to have suggested the
change to you before, but--"

"What change?" asked Erica, her forehead contracting a little.

"We thought we hoped that perhaps, if you adopted our name, it might
prevent unpleasantness. Such things are done, you know, and then, too,
we might make some arrangement about your grandfather's money, a part
of which I feel is now yours by right. Even now the change would show
people the truth, would save many disagreeables."

During this speech Erica's face had been a study; an angry glow of color
rushed to her cheeks, her eyes flashed dangerously. She was a young
girl, but there was a good deal of the lion about her at that minute,
and her aunt trembled listening perforce to the indignant outburst.

"What truth would it show?" she cried. "I don't believe there is such
a thing as truth among all these wretched shams! I will never change
my name to escape from prejudice and bigotry, or to win a share in my
grandfather's property! What! Give up my father's name to gain the money
which might have kept him from pain and ruin and semi-starvation? Take
the money that might have brought comfort to my mother that might have
kept me with her to the end. I couldn't take it. I would rather die
than touch one penny of it. It is too late now. If you thought I would
consent if that is the reason you asked me here, I can go at once. I
would not willingly have brought shame upon you, but neither will I
dishonor myself nor insult my father by changing my name. Why, to do so
would be to proclaim that I judged him as those Pharisees did tonight.
The hypocrites! Which of them can show on