But she was quite wrong in this. Miss Rose had almost gathered the truth from the trembling fingers and frightened manner of her tiring-maid that morning; and the thing had been quite confirmed to her by the malicious triumph with which Mary Forest had delivered her mistress's request to see her in the boudoir upon very particular business. “Will you please to sit down, Miss Aynton?” Yes, it was so. The secret was out. Not even a morning salutation from her friend and hostess; and the hand only outstretched to point her out a chair at the other extremity of the room. “Before proceeding with what I have to say,” began my Lady, “I wish to know whether your aunt is in town.” “I believe so, Lady Lisgard; I think she has come back from Leamington--although I have not heard from her for the last two days.” “That is well. When I hinted, yesterday morning, that it would be better for you to return to London, I was unaware of the _necessity_ for your departure from this roof at once--_immediately_--and for ever.” “Indeed!” Not a muscle moved: confident in the goodness, if not of her cause, at least of her Milan suit; conscious, too, of the possession of a Damascus poniard, undreamed of by the foe, and admirable for close encounters, her right hand nervously opened and shut as though to clutch the handle--that was all. “You have disgraced this house and me: yourself and your sex.” “You lie, insolent woman,” returned the other; “_and judge others by yourself_.” Each started to her feet, and looked her enemy in the face as she slung these words of flame. “It is worse than useless, girl, thus to brazen it out,” continued my Lady, attaching no importance to the emphasis the other laid upon her last words. “Outraging not only moral laws, but even the rites of hospitality, you have intrigued with my own son under my own roof.” “You dare to say so, Lady Lisgard, do you? It is only for his sake, I swear, that I do not brand _you_ Wanton, for that calumny. I _could_ do it; you know I could, although you wear that look of wonder. Was not that man Derrick once your lover? Ah! you wince at that. Sir Robert--good, easy man--he knew nothing, of course”---- Here she stopped, for my Lady's face was terrible to look upon. “Be silent, bad, bold girl! You shoot your poisoned arrows at a venture, and aim nothing home. You know not what a wife should be--how should you? You!” It is not true that the swan is “born to be the only graceful shape of Scorn.” A fair woman unjustly slandered is its rival therein. Rose Aynton cowered before that keen contempt--beneath the dropping of those bitter words---as though they were sword and fire. “I will never forgive you this, Lady Lisgard,” muttered she--“never, never!”