“Are you going to have a chaperon to your rather mixed house-party?” “I should if you would honour me by coming; my dear Mrs. Fontaine—a dowager dragon of propriety. But an Admiral of the British navy is quite safeguard enough for me.” The hostess, coming through the edge of the crowd, carried off Quixtus. The two women were left alone. Lena Fontaine turned suddenly, white-lipped, shaking with anger. “I’ve had enough of it. I’m not going to stand it. I’m not going to be persecuted like this any longer.” “What will you do?” Lena Fontaine clenched her small hands. What could she do? “Come, come,” said Clementina. “Let us have a straight talk like sensible women, and put the pussy-cat aside, if we can. Sit down. Do. There’s only one point of dissension between us. You know very well what it is—there’s no use fencing. Give it up. Give up all idea of it and I’ll let you alone. Give it all up. You can see for yourself that I won’t let you do it.” “It’s outrageous for you to speak to me like this,” said the other, half hysterically. “I know it is,” said Clementina coolly. “I’m an outrageous woman. Been so all my life. To do an outrageous thing is only part of the day’s work. So I just say outrageously; give it up.” Lena Fontaine fluttered a glance at the strong face and caught the magnetism of the black glittering eyes, and remained silent. She knew that she was no match for this vital creature. She was confronting overwhelming odds. The rough fishfag of Paris who could walk straight into the mould of a great lady and carry everything contemptuously before her suddenly impressed her with a paralysing sense of something uncanny, relentless, irresistible. She was less a woman than an implacable force. For the first time in her life of Hagardom, Lena Fontaine felt beaten. The nun’s face grew drawn and haggard. Fright replaced the allurement of her eyes. She said nothing, but twisted one gloved hand nervously in the other. She was at the mercy of the victor. There was silence for some moments. Then Clementina’s heart smote her. All this elaborate wheel to break a butterfly—a very naughty, sordid, frayed and empty little butterfly—but still a butterfly! “My dear,” she said, at last very gently. “I know how hard life is on a lone and defenceless woman. I know you have many reasons to hate me for preventing you from making that life softer and sweeter. But perhaps, one of these days, you mayn’t hate me so much. I’m every infernal thing you like to call me, and when I’m interfered with I’m a devil. But at heart I’m a woman and a good sort. I won’t outrage you by saying such an idiot thing as ‘Let us be friends,’ when you’ve every rational desire to murder me; but I ask you to remember—and I’ve suffered enough not to be a silly fool going round saying serious things I don’t mean—I ask you to remember that if ever you want a woman to turn to, you can count on me. I’m a good bit older than you,” she added generously, “I’m thirty-six.”