Bewilderment and unaccustomed weakness overtook Lady Coryston. It was some moments before, under the girl's threatening eyes, she could speak at all. Then she said, with difficulty: "You may marry my son, Miss Glenwilliam--but you do not love him! That is perfectly plain. You are prepared none the less, apparently, to wreck his happiness and mine, in order--" "I don't love him? Ah! that's another story altogether! Do I love him? I don't know. Honestly, I don't know. I don't believe I am as capable of falling in love as other girls are--or say they are. I like him, and get on with him--and I might marry him; I might--have--married him," she repeated, slowly, "partly to have the sweetness, Lady Coryston, of punishing you for the slight you offered my father!--and partly for other things. But you see--now I come to think of it--there is some one else to be considered--" The girl dropped into a chair, and looked across the table at her visitor, with a sudden change of mood and voice. "You say you won't have it, Lady Coryston. Well, that doesn't decide it for me--and it wouldn't decide it for Arthur. But there's some one else won't have it." A pause. Miss Glenwilliam took up the fan again and played with it--considering. "My father came to my room last night," she said, at last, "in order to speak to me about it. 'Enid,' he said, 'don't marry that man! He's a good enough fellow--but he'll drive a wedge into our life. We can't find a use for him--you and I. He'll divide us, my girl--and it isn't worth it--you don't love him!' And we had a long talk--and at last I told him--I wouldn't--I _wouldn't_! So you see, Lady Coryston, if I don't marry your son, it's not because you object--but because my father--whom you insulted--doesn't wish me to enter your family--doesn't approve of a marriage with your son--and has persuaded me against it." Lady Coryston stared into the face of the speaker, and quailed before the flash of something primitive and savage in the eyes that met her own. Under the sting of it, however, she found a first natural and moving word, as she slowly rose from her seat. "You love your father, Miss Glenwilliam. You might remember that I, too, love my son--and there was never a rough word between us till he knew you." She wavered a little, gathering up her dress. And the girl perceived that she had grown deadly white, and was suddenly ashamed of her own vehemence. She too rose. "I'm sorry, Lady Coryston. I've been a brute. But when I think of my father, and those who hate him, I see red. I had no business to say some of the things I have said. But it's no good apologizing. Let me, however, just say this: Please be careful, Lady Coryston, about your son. He's in love with me--and I'm very, _very_ sorry for him. Let me write to him first--before you speak to him. I'll write--as kindly as I can. But I warn you--it'll hurt him--and he may visit it on you--for all I can say. When will he be at Coryston?" "To-night."