“Look up at me,” she said, and the girl, obedient, rose from her seat and gazed imploringly in her mother’s face. No Neapolitan fish-wife was ever more eager to barter her daughter than was this lady of acknowledged piety and refinement, and the face into which her daughter looked and shrank from bore no trace of pity or compassion. “Tell me if you dare,” she continued, “tell me why it is that you refuse? What more do you want? Are you a princess of the blood? Perhaps you will say you don’t love him! And what if you don’t? I loved your father and look at me now! Beside, you have had enough of that--there, don’t stare at me in that way. I know, and so do you. Now take your choice--accept this offer or get to your lover--and this very night. As for me, I disown you, I--” But the flood of words was interrupted--the girl had fainted. The simulachre of death had extended its kindly arms, and into them she had fallen as into a grateful release. By the morrow her spirit was broken. Two days later Mr. Incoul called with what success the reader has been already informed, and on that same evening in obedience to the note, came Lenox Leigh. CHAPTER IV. AN EVENING CALL. When Leigh entered the drawing-room he found Miss Barhyte already there. “It is good of you to come,” she said, by way of greeting. The young man advanced to where she stood, and in a tender, proprietary manner, took her hand in his; he would have kissed her, but she turned her face aside. “What is it?” he asked; “you are pale as Ophelia.” “And you, my prince, as inquisitive as Hamlet.” She led him to a seat and found one for herself. Her eyes rested in his own, and for a moment both were silent. “Lenox,” she asked at last, “do you know Mr. Incoul?” “Yes, of course; every one does.” “I mean do you know him well?” “I never said ten words to him, nor he to me.” “So much the better. What do you suppose he did the other evening after you went away?” “Really, I have no idea, but if you wish me to draw on my imagination, I suppose he went away too.” “He offered himself.” “For what?” “To me.” “Maida, that mummy! You are joking.” “No, I am not joking, nor was he.” “Well, what then?” “Then, as you say, he went away.” “And what did you do?” “I went away too.” “Be serious; tell me about it.” “He came here this afternoon, and I--well--I am to be Mrs. Incoul.” Lenox bit his lip. Into his face there came an expression of angered resentment. He stood up from his seat; the girl put out her hand as though to stay him: “Lenox, I had to,” she cried. But he paid no attention to her words and crossed the room.