This time the words fell from Arthur Vaughan in a whisper. And he stood, turned to stone. His daughter? Sir Robert’s daughter? The girl—he tried desperately to clear his mind—of whom Wetherell had told the story, the girl whom her mother had hidden away, while in Italy, the girl whose reappearance in life had ousted him or was to oust him from his inheritance? Mary Smith—was that girl! His daughter! But no! The blood leapt back to his heart. It was impossible, it was incredible! The coincidence was too great, too amazing. His reason revolted against it. And “Impossible!” he cried in a louder, a bolder tone—though fear underlay its confidence. “You are playing with me! You must be jesting!” he repeated angrily. But the elder man, though his hand still trembled on his cane and his face was sallow with rage, had regained some control of himself. Instead of retorting on Vaughan—except by a single glance of withering contempt—he turned to Mary. “You had better go to your room,” he said, coldly but not ungently. For how could he blame her, bred amid such surroundings, for conduct that in other circumstances had irritated him indeed? For conduct that had been unseemly, unmaidenly, improper. “You had better go to your room,” he repeated. “This is no fit place for you and no fit discussion for your ears. I am not—the fault is not with you, but it will be better if you leave us.” She was rising, too completely overwhelmed to dream of refusing, when Vaughan interposed. “No,” he said with a gleam of defiance in his eyes. “By your leave, sir, no! This young lady is my affianced wife. If it be her own wish to retire, be it so. But if not, there is no one who has the right to bid her go or stay. You”—checking Sir Robert’s wrathful rejoinder by a gesture—“you may be her father, but before you can exercise a father’s rights you must make good your case.” “Make good my case!” Sir Robert ejaculated. “And when you have made it good, it will still be for her to choose between us,” Vaughan continued with determination. “You, who have never played a father’s part, who have never guided or guarded, fostered or cherished her—do not think, sir, that you can in a moment arrogate to yourself a father’s authority.” Sir Robert gasped. But the next moment he took up the glove so boldly flung down. He pointed to the door, and with less courtesy than the occasion demanded—but he was sore pressed by his anger, “Leave the room, girl,” he said. “Do as you please, Mary,” Vaughan said. “Go!” cried the baronet, stung by the use of her name. “Stay!” said Vaughan. Infinitely distressed, infinitely distracted by this appeal from the one, from the other, from this side, from that, she turned her swimming eyes on her lover. “Oh, what,” she cried, “what am I to do?”