There ensued for Amethyst some hours which were terrible to endure, and more terrible still to remember. Sir Richard Grattan, not without some dignity, withdrew to lay his case before Lord Haredale, and left the mother to plead his cause with her child. They had already told each other cynical truths, and now mother and daughter stood face to face, and Lady Haredale told Amethyst the truth without a softening word, without an ambiguous phrase. She told the facts of Lord Haredale's life, and the causes of his money troubles, and also of those of his son. She told her how he was likely to seek consolation for his disgraceful misfortunes, and made her understand the kind of company to which, if their heads once sank below water, they would be condemned. And then, did Amethyst suppose that she herself had been in love with Lord Haredale when she married him at eighteen, for his title, and because she knew her own fortune was all a myth? Amethyst was more lucky, she had got over her romance, Lady Haredale had had to manage hers after marriage, and Sir Richard was a much better man than Lord Haredale had ever pretended to be. And then the daughter replied that she was not likely to be better than father or mother; she was quite capable of another "romance," and what then? "Then," said Lady Haredale, "you must do as others have done. Get out of it without a scandal, and stop in time." "I should not stop in time in such a case." "Oh yes, you would, my dear; you're not a fool. Leave all that to take care of itself, and do what's right now. I have never gone too far. I will tell you for your good--" And Amethyst stood and listened to her mother's experiences, told in her mother's familiar voice--to her mother's view of where a woman could always stop, and yet how much might be ventured and no harm come. She listened with a dreadful comprehension of these principles of action, and with a still more dreadful certainty that she never could be certain of following them. Before she could reply, her father came in upon her, pleading and entreating with her, and throwing himself on her mercy; then, when she stood like a stone, hardened by her mother's story, he turned upon her with a rage such as she had never imagined, broke out into violent, coarse language such as she had never heard, till she shrank and trembled with sheer physical terror. Then a sound of sobs broke on the scene, and there stood Miss Haredale, and Amethyst flung herself upon her, the real mother of her youth.