“His father will not help him--if, that is what you are counting upon, Mrs Brood,” said the girl coldly. “I know. He will not help him; no.” Lydia started. “What do you know about--what has Mr Brood said to you?” Her heart was cold with apprehension. “Why are you going away next week? What has happened?” Brood's wife was regarding her with narrowing eyes. “Are you attributing my motives to something that my husband has said to me? Am I expected to say that he has--what you call it--that he has put his foot down?” “I am sorry you misunderstood my------” “Oh, I see now. You think my husband suspects that Frederic is too deeply interested in his beautiful stepmother; is not that so? Poof! It has nothing to do with it.” Her eyes were sullen, full of resentment now. She was collecting herself. The girl's eyes expressed the disdain that suddenly took the place of apprehension in her thoughts. A sharp retort leaped to her lips, but she suppressed it. “Mr Brood does not like Frederic,” she said instead, and could have cut out her tongue the instant the words were uttered. Yvonne's eyes were glittering with a light that she had never seen in them before. Afterward she described it to herself as baleful. “So! He has spoken ill--evil--of his son to you?” she said, almost in a monotone, “He has hated him for years--is not that so? I am not the original cause, _aïe?_ It began long ago--long, long ago?” “Oh, I beg of you, Mrs Brood------” began Lydia, shrinking back in dismay. “You are free to speak your thoughts to me. I shall not be offended. What has he said to you about Frederic--and me?” “Nothing, I swear to you; nothing!” cried the girl. “But you have the power of observation. You do not have to be told in so many words. You have been with him a great deal, alone. His manner tells you what his lips hold back. Tell me.” Lydia resolved to take the plunge. Now was the time to speak plainly to this woman of the thing that was hurting her almost beyond the limits of endurance. Her voice was rather high-pitched. She had the fear that she would not be able to control it. “I should be blind not to have observed the cruel position in which you are placing Frederic. Is it surprising that your husband has eyes as well as I? What must be his thoughts, Mrs Brood?” She expected an outburst, a torrent of indignation, an angry storm of words, and was therefore unprepared for the piteous, hunted expression that came swiftly into the lovely eyes, bent so appealing upon her own, which were cold and accusing. Here was a new phase to this extraordinary creature's character. She was a coward, after all, and Lydia despised a coward. The look of scorn deepened in her eyes, and out from her heart rushed all that was soft and tender in her nature, leaving it barren of all compassion. “I do not want to hurt Frederic,” murmured Yvonne. “I--I am sorry if------” “You are hurting him dreadfully,” said Lydia, suddenly choking up with emotion.