"As if I was a miser," she complained, "instead of one whose whole thought is for my fellow creatures." "At other people's expense--quite so," said Barton. He really was a disagreeable old creature. "Come, Julia, tell me the truth. Why are you giving this dinner?" "I'm afraid Miss Crane is dull, and I thought it would liven her up a little." "Oh, that's it, is it?" said Barton, not believing her in the least. "Then you and she and Miss Marsh had better come to dinner at the Manor House. There is nothing for Miss Crane or anyone else to enjoy in being poisoned by your cook." Mrs. Darrow calculated that she could gain her end--whatever it was--just as well at Uncle Barton's expense as at her own. But although she accepted with avidity, she wept still as a tribute to her dignity. "Of course, if you insist upon it, I will come," she said; "but my poor little dinner would have been quite a treat for you all. I intended to assist cook." "Did you? worse and worse! Well, will you come to-morrow evening at seven?" Mrs. Darrow bowed her head. "And I hope you won't mind giving me a cheque, Uncle Barton. Miss Crane eats a great deal; she comes expensive." Barton chuckled. "What, at your Barmecidian banquets? I tell you what, Julia, my dear, if you will tell me the truth to-morrow night I will give you something." And he walked off. As Mrs. Darrow knew, and as Uncle Barton knew she knew, it was impossible for her to tell the truth without offending him. He guessed that her purpose was spiteful, and one in some way connected with Miriam; and he was right. The widow had discovered--as she thought--something to Miriam's disadvantage, and wanted to explode her bombshell in as public a manner as possible. Up to the present she had told only Hilda about her discovery, and Hilda, being no less spiteful against the unfortunate governess, was hoping to witness her discomfiture before Major Dundas and Gerald. This being so, Mrs. Darrow knew that if she told the truth Barton would refuse to pay for the confession of so mean a purpose. Therefore she saw the promised cheque eluding her, and calculating--in her own logical way--that up to the present Miriam had cost her a possible ten pounds, allowed her feelings full vent for the time being. She glared after Uncle Barton's retreating figure; and would have shaken her fist at it had she not known from previous experience that he had eyes at the back of his head. "Horrid old man," she murmured. "I'll make you and your red-haired creature pay for this!"