He knew who it was. It was the Lady Joan girl, and the sudden sight of her momentarily “rattled” him. “You quite gave me a jolt,” he said awkwardly, and knowing that he said it like a “mutt.” “I didn't know any one was in the gallery.” “What are you doing here?” she asked. She spoke to him as though she were addressing an intruding servant. There was emphasis on the word “you.” Her intention was so evident that it increased his feeling of being “rattled.” To find himself confronting deliberate ill nature of a superior and finished kind was like being spoken to in a foreign language. “I--I'm T. Tembarom.” he answered, not able to keep himself from staring because she was such a “winner” as to looks. “T. Tembarom?” she repeated slowly, and her tone made him at once see what a fool he had been to say it. “I forgot,” he half laughed. “I ought to have said I'm Temple Barholm.” “Oh!” was her sole comment. She actually stood still and looked him up and down. She knew perfectly well who he was, and she knew perfectly well that no palliative view could possibly be taken by any well-bred person of her bearing toward him. He was her host. She had come, a guest, to his house to eat his bread and salt, and the commonest decency demanded that she should conduct herself with civility. But she cared nothing for the commonest, or the most uncommon, decency. She was thinking of other things. As she had stood before the window she had felt that her soul had never been so black as it was when she turned away from Miles Hugo's portrait--never, never. She wanted to hurt people. Perhaps Nero had felt as she did and was not so hideous as he seemed. The man's tailor had put him into proper clothes, and his features were respectable enough, but nothing on earth could make him anything but what he so palpably was. She had seen that much across the gallery as she had watched him staring at Miles Hugo. “I should think,” she said, dropping the words slowly again, “that you would often forget that you are Temple Barholm.” “You're right there,” he answered. “I can't nail myself down to it. It seems like a sort of joke.” She looked him over again. “It is a joke,” she said. It was as though she had slapped him in the face, though she said it so quietly. He knew he had received the slap, and that, as it was a woman, he could not slap back. It was a sort of surprise to her that he did not giggle nervously and turn red and shuffle his feet in impotent misery. He kept quite still a moment or so and looked at her, though not as she had looked at him. She wondered if he was so thick-skinned that he did not feel anything at all. “That's so,” he admitted. “That's so.” Then he actually smiled at her. “I don't know how to behave myself, you see,” he said. “You're Lady Joan Fayre, ain't you? I'm mighty glad to see you. Happy to make your acquaintance, Lady Joan.” He took her hand and shook it with friendly vigor before she knew what he was going to do.