'I am glad you recognise us,' said he, mockingly, as he replaced the photo in its receptacle, and the latter in his breast pocket; 'and now to business. What would your drawing-room hero think of this, if he saw it? Ha, ha! He did not approve of Byron at Dundargue, I remember--would rather we stuck to Dr. Watts' hymns, I suppose--'How doth the little busy bee," and so forth; well, like that industrious insect, I mean to improve "the shining hour." How would he--how will you and your family, with all their cursed Scotch pride--like to see this photo in every shop window exposed for sale to the British public, among ballet-girls in snowstorms, countesses swinging in hammocks, bishops, and generals--murderers, too, perhaps--eh? In a week or two I may have a million copies of this precious photo for sale in London and elsewhere. Do you realise the meaning of this, my scornful beauty? and the result it must have on you, your name, your character, your family, and your future--Miss Olive Raymond posed in the arms of Hawke Holcroft?' 'Oh, heavens!' said Olive, in a low voice like a whisper; 'are you a man or a devil?' 'A little of both, perhaps--I am what circumstances have made me.' 'Daring wretch--oh, what wrong have I ever done you that you should cross my path and agonise me thus?' Holcroft laughed; he knew that she had a more than handsome allowance at her guardian's behest and her own bank account. He was without remorse or pity, for cowardice and selfishness were alike the ruling features of his character, and he thought to control the tongue and action of Olive through her own pride and her love of Allan with an eye to future monetary extortions. Pressing her left hand upon her heart, as if she felt--as no doubt she did--a spasm of pain there, and, with her eyes almost closed, she said, 'In the name of mercy, give me back that photo!' 'After I have had it so carefully improved as a work of art? No; no, Miss Raymond,' said he, in his detestable sneering tone; 'but I shall be content to forego my interest in the copyright for a certain reasonable consideration.' 'A consideration. I do not understand you, sir,' said Olive, faintly, and clutching a table for support. 'Plainly, then, I mean a cheque for three hundred--no, let me say four hundred--pounds, and you had better be quick about it, as I have no time to spare, and, truth to tell, have no desire to renew my acquaintance with any of the Aberfeldie folks again.' 'Four hundred pounds?' 'That is the sum, Miss Raymond.' Like a blind person, she feebly and irresolutely seemed to grope with her key about the lock of her davenport, and Holcroft said, 'Permit me to assist you.' He unlocked it, and threw open the lid. Mechanically she seated herself, and began to write, while conscious that this bantering villain was still addressing her.