'To your discredit! Oh! Actually to your discredit! Sir, I know the whole of your disgraceful history--the history of the past three or four years. I know by what frauds you have passed yourself off as a painter and as a poet. I know by what pretences you thought to lay the foundation for a reputation as a dramatist. I know that your talk is borrowed--that you do not know art when you see it: that you could never write a single line of verse--and that of all the humbugs and quacks that ever imposed themselves upon the credulity of people you are the worst and biggest.' He stared with a wonder which was, at least, admirably acted. 'Good Heavens!' he said. 'These words--these accusations--from you? From Armorel Rosevean--cousin of my cousin--whom I had believed to be a friend? Can this be possible? Who has put this wonderful array of charges into your head?' 'That matters nothing. They are true, and you know it.' 'They are so true,' he replied sternly, 'that if anyone were to dare to repeat these things before a third person, I should instantly--instantly--instruct my solicitors to bring an action for libel. Remember: youth and sex would not avail to protect that libeller. If anyone--anyone--dares, I say----' 'Oh! say no more. Go, and do not speak to me again! What will be done with this knowledge, I cannot say. Perhaps it will be used for the exposure which will drive you from the houses of honest people. Go, I say!' [Illustration: _'Oh! say no more. Go, and do not speak to me again!'_] She stamped her foot and raised her voice, insomuch that two drowsy attendants woke up and looked round, thinking they had dreamed something unusual. The injured man of Art and Letters obeyed. He strode away. He, who had come pale and hesitating, now, on learning the truth which he had suspected and on receiving this unmistakable rejection, walked away with head erect and lofty mien. He showed, at least by outward bearing, the courage which is awakened by a declaration of war. CHAPTER XVIII CONGRATULATIONS In the afternoon of the same day Armorel received a visit from a certain Lady Frances, of whom mention has already been made. She was sitting in her own room, alone. The excitements of the last night and of the morning were succeeded by a gentle melancholy. These things had not been expected when she took her rooms and plunged into London life. Besides, after these excitements the afternoon was flat.