up my mind to get hold of Hatty and ask her when she were going home; I
think she would be safer there than here. But it was a long, long while
before I could reach her. So many people seemed to be hemming her in.
I sat on an ottoman in the corner, watching my opportunity, when all at
once a voice called me back to something else.

"Dear little Cary, I have been so wishing for a chat with you."

Hatty used to say that you may always know something funny is coming
when you see a cat wag her tail. I had come to the conclusion that
whenever one person addressed me with endearing phrases, something
sinister was coming. I looked up this time: I did not courtesy and walk
away, as I did on the last occasion. I wanted to avoid an open quarrel.
If she had sought me out after that, I could not avoid it. But to
speak to me as if nothing had happened!--how could the woman be so
brazen as that?

I looked up, and saw a large gold-coloured fan, most beautifully painted
with birds of all the hues of the rainbow, from over which those tawny
eyes were glancing at me; and for one moment I wished that hating people
were not wicked.

"For what purpose, Madam?" I replied.

"Dear child, you are angry with me," she said, and the soft, warm,
gloved hand pressed mine, before I could draw it away. "It is so
natural, for of course you do not understand. But it makes me very
sorry, for I loved you so much."

O serpent, how beautiful you are! But you are a serpent still.

"Did you?" I said, and my voice sounded hard and cold to my own ears.
"I take the liberty of doubting whether you and I give that name to the
same thing."

The light gleamed and flashed, softened and darkened, then shot out
again from those wonderful, beautiful eyes.

"And you won't forgive me?" she said, in a soft sad voice. How she can
govern that voice, to be sure!

"Forgive you? Yes," I answered. "But trust you? No. I think never
again, my Lady Parmenter."

"You will be sorry some day that you did not."

Was it a regret? was it a threat? The voice conveyed neither, and might
have stood for both. I looked up again, but she had vanished, and where
she had been the moment before stood Mr Raymond.

"A penny for your thoughts, Miss Courtenay."

"You shall have my past thoughts, if you please," said I, trying to
speak lightly. "I would rather not sell my present ones at the price."

He smiled, and drew out a new penny. "Then let me make the less