He went on explosively tirading, but Nora no longer listened. She was thinking of her mother’s words and wondering if these then were the narrow-hearted fools and braggarts against whom she was to struggle. And in that moment the struggle began in her own heart. She went to the window and tried to shut her ears against all that was going on about her. She tried to understand herself and the strange, conflicting emotions which had come to life in the last few minutes. Everything that the squire and her brother had said goaded her to a hot retort. She felt herself quivering with indignation—because they were abusing a people she hated, the man whom she had deserted because she no longer loved him! She _wanted_ to ratify every word they said; she told herself that she had the right to do so, that it was all true; and yet her whole spirit rose in arms against their attack. What was worse, she felt a vague antipathy for these three men. She thought the squire coarse and arrogant; his entry and his greeting to her had been rough and without the respect to which she was accustomed. And why could Miles do nothing without his hands in his pockets? Why, when he sat down, had he to be either nursing his leg or "slouching"? Why was her father so weak and fussy-looking? And then, to her horror, Wolff stood before her eyes. Was it a feeling of pride which crept over her, pride in his upright bearing and dignity? _He_ had never been rough or rude to her. His courtesy to her and all women had been unvarying. She turned quickly away, trying to stop her own thoughts. The squire was standing in his favourite attitude, with his legs wide apart, still tirading impartially against the German people and the English Government, who refused to wipe them off the face of the earth. Miles had collapsed into the most comfortable arm-chair, his head thrown back, his hands plunged deep in his pockets. The Rev. John stood between them, a picture of helpless dejection. It seemed to Nora that they had each taken up the attitude in which she hated them most. Hated! It was the word her thoughts had uttered. It could not be recalled. If she hated them—why, then, she had lost everything: her husband, her people, her own nationality! Why, then, she was nothing, she belonged to no one, no link of love bound her to any living being. Only her mother was left—her mother and that one other being the knowledge of whose existence had come too late to save her. In the same moment that her full misery broke upon Nora some one tapped at the door and, without awaiting an answer, a pale, terrified-looking servant rushed in. "If you please, sir," she stammered, "will you come at once? The mistress is—asleep—and we cannot wake her——"