“I’m not that, indeed!” protested Mrs. Aron, tremulously, also rising to her feet, “but I am in want--that is to say, I’d be thankful if you could spare me a little assistance to pay my way to Queenstown.” “Well, you will not get it here,” replied Mrs. Doran with biting emphasis. “I’ve suspected what you wanted all along--money. You are a begging impostor. Thomson!”--to her man-servant--“show this person out, and do not admit her again on any consideration.” “And so, is this what I’m to tell your sister?” cried the American, suddenly confronting her hostess, “that you turned me out of the house!” “You may, for all I care--I don’t believe for a moment that you know her!” “If I don’t”--a pause, during which she seemed to struggle for an expression--“I know you--and well--for a hard, avaricious, cruel woman, that grinds the poor, and that drove your husband into his grave.” “There, that’s enough!” interrupted Mrs. Doran, whose face had assumed the colour of beetroot. “Another word and I send for the police, you abusive old vagabond!” A clang at the hall door announced the Countess, and Mrs. Aron was hurried into the hall. Thus the coming and the parting guest came face to face. The parting guest walked slowly down the avenue, every now and then pausing to look back. As she stood for a last glance, she was overtaken by Ulick Doran on a prancing bay filly. “Hullo!” he said, “what’s the matter?” He noticed that she had been crying. “Have you been up to see my mother?” “Say!” she said in a choked voice, “I don’t feel like talking to--to any one just now--” and she moved on, evidently struggling with some overpowering emotion. “Oh, now,” suddenly dismounting, “I’m not going to let you off like this! Won’t you tell me what is the trouble? Come now.” “Well, your mother told me I was just an impostor and a fraud, and turned me out. Your aunt had certainly forgotten her people, for she assured me I’d have a warm welcome, and be asked to stay.” “My mother is a bit hasty sometimes,” he murmured, “and as to visitors--she is dreadfully worried with servants; she never even asks over her own relations.” “Do you believe I’m telling truth or lies,” demanded Mrs. Aron suddenly. “The truth. Yes I do! I think you have it in your face. And it was kind of you to come and look us up. I’d like to know my aunt Nora. Mind you give her my love.” “Yes, I will. She has not many to love her.” “Why so?” “Because she is so rich; now”--and she hesitated. “I am myself a bit pressed for money for the price of my hotel bill and a second-class ticket to Queenstown.” She paused, and looked at him interrogatively, “and--you see for yourself I’ve no friends here!” The young man reddened as he answered-- “I’m not to say flush just now, but I think I can scrape up ten pounds.” “That will be as much as I shall want; and you shall have it back on my word of honour. I suppose you have not got it about you?” “No, but I will send or bring it over myself this evening.”