"The plot thickens," he said at last, and his voice had grown hoarse. "Am I to understand that you contemplate a marriage between this modern Romeo and Juliet? I suppose so, since the affair has flourished under your roof." "You certainly may understand it, De Lacy. I don't see why your wicked old feuds and hatreds should overshadow two young lives. Let alone that the feud was entirely of your making." "Do you expect me to abet you?" "Oh, indeed, I expect little of you, De Lacy, unless the grace of God should soften your heart!" "Will it alter matters that the youth inherits nothing but the barren acres of Angry? You and--Miss Brandon--are probably thinking of him as the inheritor of my wealth. But my money is my own, and I'd rather leave it to Gaskin to found a family, or endow a home for mangy cats with it." The fan moved more airily than ever. "As you will, Sir Rupert. I am a poor woman, but what little I have goes to my dear child." "She may not be satisfied with that," he said, sneering viciously. "You probably underestimate her common-sense. And he--he may know on which side his bread is buttered." "You wrong them both, De Lacy. Love is enough for them." "A very pretty sentiment in the mouth of an old woman." The fan fluttered as if the hand that held it were agitated, and I guessed that the rude shaft had gone home. "It was hardly worth my while to ask you if you were friend or foe," she said after a moment's silence. "I might have known. Do your worst, De Lacy, you cannot hurt them." "Oh, hurting of the kind you mean is out of fashion! They have my worst wishes. Otherwise, all I desire is to hear no more of the cub who calls himself by my name, and the pauper he has chosen." "For shame, Sir Rupert! You are unnatural, or you would love the boy and think of nothing but his happiness." The old man rose from his seat and made an exaggerated bow. "You are welcome to him," he said, "the poor, pretty, puling fool! I hope the girl has enough manhood for two." "If he were not a man, De Lacy, he would never have spent an hour in Angry Castle. What are you, to judge of gentleness and chivalry?" She had stood up now, and, leaning on her stick, shook an angry head at him. [Illustration: "LADY O'BRIEN STOOD UP NOW AND SHOOK AN ANGRY HEAD AT HIM."] "What have you done with him, De Lacy?" she cried. "I believe you know where he is, and will not say." "What, then, is Master Milksop to be spirited away like a yearling child?" "He is not with you, then?" she said, too eager to be baffled by his insults. "He is not. He left three months ago." "Three months ago! Why hasn't he written then?" "How can I say? He has tired of his fancy, I expect." "That is not true, De Lacy, and you know it is not." "If he has not, let him come back to her." Lady O'Brien rang the bell, and in answer the page-boy appeared. "Show this gentleman out," she said, and stood erect till the door had closed behind the enemy.