Cytherea, red and panting, took up her candlestick and advanced to the table to get a light. As she stood close to them the rays from the candles struck sharply on her face. She usually bore a much stronger likeness to her mother than to her father, but now, looking with a grave, reckless, and angered expression of countenance at the kindling wick as she held it slanting into the other flame, her father’s features were distinct in her. It was the first time Miss Aldclyffe had seen her in a passionate mood, and wearing that expression which was invariably its concomitant. It was Miss Aldclyffe’s turn to start now; and the remark she made was an instance of that sudden change of tone from high-flown invective to the pettiness of curiosity which so often makes women’s quarrels ridiculous. Even Miss Aldclyffe’s dignity had not sufficient power to postpone the absorbing desire she now felt to settle the strange suspicion that had entered her head. ‘You spell your name the common way, G, R, E, Y, don’t you?’ she said, with assumed indifference. ‘No,’ said Cytherea, poised on the side of her foot, and still looking into the flame. ‘Yes, surely? The name was spelt that way on your boxes: I looked and saw it myself.’ The enigma of Miss Aldclyffe’s mistake was solved. ‘O, was it?’ said Cytherea. ‘Ah, I remember Mrs. Jackson, the lodging-house keeper at Budmouth, labelled them. We spell our name G, R, A, Y, E.’ ‘What was your father’s trade?’ Cytherea thought it would be useless to attempt to conceal facts any longer. ‘His was not a trade,’ she said. ‘He was an architect.’ ‘The idea of your being an architect’s daughter!’ ‘There’s nothing to offend you in that, I hope?’ ‘O no.’ ‘Why did you say “the idea”?’ ‘Leave that alone. Did he ever visit in Gower Street, Bloomsbury, one Christmas, many years ago?--but you would not know that.’ ‘I have heard him say that Mr. Huntway, a curate somewhere in that part of London, and who died there, was an old college friend of his.’ ‘What is your Christian name?’ ‘Cytherea.’ ‘No! And is it really? And you knew that face I showed you? Yes, I see you did.’ Miss Aldclyffe stopped, and closed her lips impassibly. She was a little agitated. ‘Do you want me any longer?’ said Cytherea, standing candle in hand and looking quietly in Miss Aldclyffe’s face. ‘Well--no: no longer,’ said the other lingeringly. ‘With your permission, I will leave the house to morrow morning, madam.’ ‘Ah.’ Miss Aldclyffe had no notion of what she was saying. ‘And I know you will be so good as not to intrude upon me during the short remainder of my stay?’ Saying this Cytherea left the room before her companion had answered. Miss Aldclyffe, then, had recognized her at last, and had been curious about her name from the beginning.