She did not like Mr Montaigne, and his acts towards her that night made her tremble with indignation; but these thoughts were met by another current, which seemed to tell her that she was misjudging him. He had spoken to her as to one who was very dear to him. His words had been those of a father to his child; and why should she resent it? Mr Montaigne was not a young man, and it might seem to him that their positions had in no wise changed since she, a trembling, heart-broken little girl, fresh from a wretched home, had sat and listened to his soft, bland voice, followed his instructions, and had her curls smoothed by his soft white hand. "But I am a woman grown now, and it is dreadful," she cried, bursting into a passion of indignant tears. "I don't like it. I will speak to Miss Philippa. I don't think it is right." "Are you there, Miss Ruth?" "Yes, Markes." "Oh, that's right. I thought you was lost. Cook told me you were in the drawing-room when I came in. There, child, don't sit and mope in the dark because you did not get asked to the party. You'll be a woman soon, my dear, and maybe they'll find you a husband like the rest." "Child!" Yes, it was always "child"; but the girl's heart rebelled against the appellation. These elderly maidens could not think of her as one whose mind was ripening fast, in spite of the sunless seclusion in which she lived. "I'll tell Markes," she thought, as her heart throbbed with the recollection of that which had passed. But no; she could not. There was something repellent in this woman's ways, and at last, with her brain in a tumult with conflicting ideas, Ruth sought her pillow, while Paul Montaigne, with a curious smile upon his face, was still pacing his room after his dark walk back to Teddington, one hand clasping the other, as if he still held Ruth's. "No," he said, "she will not say a word. It is not likely. There is a bond of sympathy between us now." He walked up and down a little longer, and then stood still, talking softly--half aloud. "Woman is our master, they say; but let her be led to compromise herself, however slightly, and she becomes the slave. Poor little Ruth, she is very innocent and sweet." Volume 2, Chapter II. LOVE PAINTS AND DECORATES. The change at the Honourable Misses Dymcox's home was something so startling that Ruth was almost bewildered. Even on the following morning at breakfast, after Joseph had brought in the urn, the alteration had begun. The wine of the last night's party might have been fancied to be still having its influence, the ladies were so much less austere. "I'm very, very glad you enjoyed yourselves so much, my dears," said the Honourable Philippa, smiling. "You feel none the worse, my loves?" said the Honourable Isabella. "Oh no, aunt," said Clotilde; "I feel better. Don't you, Marie?" "Oh yes," said that young lady; "it was a delightful party."