And now the drapery over another entrance vibrated--was briskly whisked aside, and someone came into the room. Verona was so agitated she could hardly rise, as she saw approaching a little elderly woman, with a frizzy fringe, eager black eyes, and a girlish figure. She noticed that she wore a buff-coloured cotton dress with dark spots and a wide scarlet necktie; and even by the diminishing light the girl discerned that the stranger was dark; oh, much darker than Prince Tossati--or even Madame de Godez! "Well, Verona, child," she began in a high staccato key as she advanced and took her hand, "so you have come! My goodness, how tall you are! You must stoop for me to kiss you." Verona paused for a moment, irresolute, wondering who this person might be? but bent her head as requested, in order to receive a salute. "My! you are a great big girl," continued the little woman; "but tall girls are the fashion--so the papers say!" As she noticed that Verona's eyes were still gazing beyond her, and fixed intently on the door, she cried: "Whatt are you doing, child? Why are you staring so?" "I am expecting my mother; is she coming soon?" she faltered, in a low tone. "Soon," repeated the little dark woman, with a scream of hysterical laughter, "why, she is here, child! Don't you know that _I_ am your mother? Whatt a funny girl! My! whatt a joke!" "_You_," stammered Verona, in a faint voice; the room was whirling round, as she hastily put out her hand to support herself by the table. "Why, of course, and who else?" demanded Mrs. Chandos, in a sharp challenging key. "You are astonished because I am so small; I am astonished because you are so big, so we are quits. No?" Verona could not speak; she felt as if a rock had fallen upon her heart and was seized by a choking sensation that threatened to strangle her. It was the crucial moment of her life. A thunderbolt had shattered her personality; her very identity seemed dissolved, who was she? What was she? Vainly she struggled to realize that she was the daughter of this half-caste woman! Yes, she, with all her delicate fastidiousness, her uncontrollable antipathy to black blood--her invincible pride of race. Poor old Madame was indeed prophetic, when she had talked of "punishment." What a sentence! It was worse than death. Fortunately the light was dim, the sudden Indian twilight had invaded the room, for Verona's face was fixed and frozen in an ecstasy of horror. "You don't seem to have much to say for yourself," began Mrs. Chandos, in a querulous, complaining tone, but before she had completed the sentence her husband entered, closely followed by two young women, and a slouching youth in a gaudy red blazer. "Ah, you and your mother have met," he observed in an unnatural muffled voice. "So you have seen her?" "Who could see anyone in this light?" cried his wife. "Here is the lamp," as a bearded servant entered, carrying a large argand, which he placed on the table.