Chris, still white, and with tears starting to her eyes, stammered some sort of incoherent apology. Mrs. Abercarne, pitying the poor child, who was indeed most miserable at this fresh mishap, addressed the dreaded employer in a stately and dignified fashion. “You must forgive my daughter, sir,” she began, with a great affectation of deference. Indeed, her humility was so deep, so laboured in expression, as to constitute almost an offence, implying as it did that her natural position was so lofty, that it required a good deal of make-believe to bring herself into a semblance of inferiority to him. “She had no intention of offending you, I can assure you. Her words were merely idle ones, uttered in girlish folly, and without the slightest idea that you were near enough to overhear them.” Mrs. Abercarne slightly emphasised these last words, just to remind him that in approaching without warning he had committed a breach of what she considered good form. So far from appearing to be impressed by the gentle rebuke, Mr. Bradfield proceeded to offend more deeply. Merely nodding to the elderly lady, without the formality of a glance in her direction, he kept his eyes fixed upon Chris as he took a step forward, which brought him into the corner by the piano, and in front of the fireplace. Here he stood for a few moments in perfect silence, still looking at the young girl, and rubbing his hands softly, the one over the other, in the warmth of the fire. Chris, who, instead of being pale, was now crimson, looked at the carpet and remained standing, wishing she had never persuaded her mother to take this degrading position, and feeling acutely that if they had come as visitors, and not as dependents, Mr. Bradfield would never have dared to stare at her in this persistent and insulting manner. Mrs. Abercarne, older and more self-possessed, was able to get a good view of the man on whom so much now depended, and to form some sort of opinion as to their chances of staying in this luxurious home. Mr. Bradfield was not handsome, neither was he of very distinguished appearance. A little below the middle height, neither stout nor thin, there was nothing more striking about him than his very black whiskers, moustache and eyebrows, and a certain steady stare of his sharp grey eyes, which was rather disconcerting, since it gave the idea that he was always inwardly taking stock of the person on whom his eyes were fixed. “Girlish folly?” he repeated at last. “Do you plead guilty to that, Miss--Miss----” Here he paused, hunted in his pockets, and producing Mrs. Abercarne’s letter, turned to the signature. “Miss Abercarne. You must excuse me, but I have had a good deal of correspondence the last few days, and I haven’t taken proper note of your name. Now,” he went on, still ignoring the elderly lady altogether, “do you still plead guilty to girlish folly, Miss Abercarne?” “Yes,” murmured Chris, “and I am very sorry.”