“One word, mother,” said Perdita, who had maintained an extraordinary degree of composure throughout this scene--doubtless because she knew that she must triumph in the long run. “You threaten bravely: let us look calmly and deliberately at what must be the inevitable results of a fearful quarrel between you and me:--let us see who would get the better of it! On one side would be you--old--ugly--disgustingly ugly, I may say--so that to become anything save a beggar, grovelling in the kennel would be impossible. On the other side would be myself--at all events handsome enough to gain the favour of some soft fool: and, spoil my character as you will, you cannot prevent me from finding a paramour amongst those who care nothing for the reputation, but every thing for the beauty, of their mistresses. Bread to me is certain: rags and starvation to you are equally well assured. My life of pleasure, gaiety, and dissipation is to come: yours has passed--and naught remains for you save to die in a workhouse or on a dunghill! Pardon me, my dear mother, for speaking thus openly--thus plainly,” added the young woman, now throwing a spice of irony into her tone: “but you did not spare me when you summed up my characteristics just now. And before I quit the subject, I may as well observe that you yourself are not the most immaculate woman upon the face of the earth. Heaven only knows how prolific were the debaucheries of your youth: but you veiled them all beneath the aspect of a _saint_! Oh! that was excellent, dear mother--excellent, indeed!” cried Perdita, her merry, musical laugh echoing through the apartment: “only conceive you once to have been a _saint_! In good truth, you have not much of the appearance of a saint now, mother: neither had you when living with the free-settler as his mistress!” “Perdita--Perdita!” gasped the wretched Mrs. Fitzhardinge, writhing like a snake at these bitter words, and shaking convulsively from head to foot: “you--you will drive me mad!” “Ah! what--do you possess _feelings_, then, my dear mother?” demanded the young woman, assuming an air of profound astonishment. “And yet you must have imagined that your daughter was totally without those same little feelings which it is so easy to wound, and so difficult to heal. Well--I will forbear: otherwise, I was about to have reminded you of those glorious times--before I was born, indeed--when you were the paramour of Sir Henry Courtenay, whose name you so pleasantly and quietly forged to a slip of paper one day----” “Silence--Perdita--silence!” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge, in a hoarse and hollow tone--clasping her hands convulsively at the same time. “I was wrong to provoke you thus: you are very hard upon me--you have the best of it, Perdita--and I--I----”