“Ah, Mr. Arden!” said Mrs. Pimpernel, “he is a gentleman--he is a true gentleman, notwithstanding all the nonsense you have been putting in Mr. Pimpernel’s head. And I tell you I don’t believe a word of it--not a word! Mr. Arden is what he always was, and you are a poor, mean, shabby adventurer, poking into people’s houses, and making yourself agreeable, and all that. Yes! I’ll make you hear me! that I shall! I tell you you are no better than a----” “Is it necessary that John and Mary should assist at this explanation?” said Arthur. He smiled, but he was very pale. He said to himself that to attach any importance to the words of such a woman would be folly indeed; but yet shame and rage tore him asunder. A lady would not have condescended to abuse him. She would have treated him with deadly civility, and given him to understand that his room was wanted for another guest. But Mrs. Pimpernel had not been trained to habits of conventional decorum. Her face was red, her head trembled with rage and excitement. She had suffered a great deal in silence nursing her wrath--and now there was no longer any need to restrain herself. Now, Mr. Pimpernel himself was convinced, and Alice was indignant. He had been making use of them, trifling with them, taking advantage of the shelter of their house to carry on first one “affair” and then another. Had it been Clare Arden who had at this last crowning moment led him away from Alice, the affront would have been bitter, but not so unpardonable. But a girl out of the village, a nobody, an artful---- Words forsook Mrs. Pimpernel’s burning lips. She felt herself no longer able to stand and pour forth her wrath. She made a dash at the door of Mr. Pimpernel’s library, and sat down, calling the culprit before her, with a wave of her hand. Arthur went in; but he shut the door, which was not what she had wanted. A certain moral support was in the fact that she stood, as it were, in the open centre of her own house, speaking loud enough to be heard by her husband and daughter above, and by the servants below stairs. But Mrs. Pimpernel, notwithstanding her courage, did not feel so comfortable when she found herself shut into the silence of a separate room, with Arthur Arden, pale and composed, and overwhelmingly gentlemanly, before her, and not even the presence of John or Mary to give her strength. It was a strategical mistake. “I am glad to say it does not matter to me who hears me,” she said. “Let those be ashamed that have acted shabby, and shown themselves what they are. For my part, I couldn’t have believed it. To creep into a house, and live on the best of everything, and carriages and horses and all at your command--I should have been ashamed to do it. No man would have done it that was better than an adventurer--a mean, miserable----”