She strode haughtily across the room and poured out two glasses of wine. She came back and handed one of them to me. “My dear Michael,” she began. “I am a stormy woman. I repent of what I said to you. Here we part. Rise and lift your glass. We shall drink a toast before you go.” I stood up. This was easier than I had expected. I had counted on more of a scene and could almost smile at the ease of my achievement. “You do me honor, Lady Marmaduke. I hardly hoped that you would sympathize with my conscience. Propose your toast.” “Can you guess who it is?” “The Earl?” “No.” I laughed. “Our friend, the patroon?” “The patroon of Hanging Rock? Yes, but by a different title. Drink, Michael. Long life and happiness to the seducer of your sister.” “My God!” I cried, dashing glass and all upon the floor. “What do you mean?” “You know well enough. I told you long ago that he visited her room that night she died. We of the aristocracy here think little of our bond-slaves. They are mere chattels to our lust. Why should they not minister to our pleasure. Why should not Ruth—” “Stop! You are baiting me. You do not know this. Louis said that she was murdered, but not that she was—” “You know that? You will not strike her murderer? You craven coward! And I know why you halt. You love the Catholic woman.” “What if I do? She loved my sister.” “Ah, she loved your sister and you love her; he killed your sister and you love him.” “What can I do? He is her father.” “Do you remember a masterless man who once came into this very room to smell the smell of burning flesh?” “Don’t, don’t.” “Why don’t? What do you care now? Your sister’s agony, the tortured flesh quivering under the iron’s heat—why, man, you should thank God for that. How else would you have gone to the house at Hanging Rock? How else would you have met your wonderful, adorable, queen of your heart, the Catholic Miriam? How Ruth loved Catholics! Get down on your knees, man. Your sister’s martyrdom has brought you a love. It brings you a home, position, with the name of coward and of traitor to my trust. Thank God, I say; thank God.” “You are unjust, Lady Marmaduke. You do not understand me.” “My dearest Michael, I understand you perfectly. It was in the beginning that I made the mistake. I took you for a man. I supposed flesh and blood could not forget the debt you owe the patroon. But ’twas a small debt after all. What is a sister ruined and murdered to a father-in-law who ruined her? Ha, ha, ha, Michael; do you think I misunderstand you now?” This was hard treatment and it took my resolution as the summer dries a stream. I could stand ridicule—though that hurt me more than most things—but the worst was that the picture she drew was true. I had never admitted to myself that I felt more than mere respect for Miriam. At that moment I believe I hated her.