She went with the man to a pavilion where food was served, and accompanied him to a room separated by curtains from the main hall. It had open windows which looked out on to the illuminated garden and the dancing. In this room, seated round a table, was a company of women gaudily dressed and painted, and with them were men. One of these was a mere boy now being drawn into evil for the first time, and Barbara grieved for him. These welcomed the woman Bess and her companion noisily, and made room for them in seats near to the window. Then the meal began, a costly meal at which not much was eaten but a great deal was drunk. The revellers grew excited with wine; they made jests and told doubtful stories. Barbara’s son Anthony entered unobserved and stood with his back against the curtains. He was a man now, tall, powerful, and in his way handsome, with hair of a chestnut red. Just then he who had brought Bess to the supper threw his arm about her and kissed her, whereat she laughed and the others laughed also. Anthony sprang forward. The table was overthrown. He seized the man and shook him. Then he struck him in the face and hurled him through the open window to the path below. For a few seconds the man lay there, then rose and ran till presently he vanished beneath the shadow of some trees. There was tumult and confusion in the room; servants rushed in, and one of the men, he who seemed to be the host, talked with them and offered them money. The woman Bess began to revile her husband. He took her by the arm and said: “Will you follow that fellow through the window, or will you come with me?” Glancing at him, she saw something in his face that made her silent. Then they went away together. The scene changed. Barbara knew that now she saw her Aunt Thompson’s London house. In that drawing-room where she had parted from Mr. Russell, her son and his wife stood face to face. “How dare you?” she gasped through her set lips, glaring at him with fierce eyes. “How dare _you?_” he answered. “Did I marry you for this? I have given you everything, my name, the wealth my old aunt left to me; you, you the peasant’s child, the evil woman whom I tried to lift up because I loved you from the first.” “Then you were a fool for your pains, for such as I can’t be lifted up.” “And you,” he went on, unheeding, “go back to your mire and the herd of your fellow-swine. You ask me how I dare. Go on with these ways, and I tell you I’ll dare a good deal more before I’ve done. I’ll be rid of you if I must break your neck and hang for it.” “You can’t be rid of me. I’m your lawful wife, and you can prove nothing against me since I married. Do you think I want to be such a one as that mother of yours, to have children and mope myself to the grave——” “You’d best leave my mother out of it, or by the devil that made you I’ll send you after her. Keep her name off your vile lips.”