"Respectful!" The reiteration was accompanied with a laugh which brought into use all the harsh, unpleasing notes in the girl's voice. She turned away from her mother, and with one white elbow resting on the dressing-table, began to play idly with the silver ornaments. "No, I suppose I am not respectful," she went on calmly. "I think we are too intimate for that, mother. We know each other too well, and have spoken about things too plainly. People, I imagine, only retain the respect of their fellow-creatures so long as they keep themselves and their projects a haloed mystery. That isn't our case. There are no haloes or mysteries between us, are there?" "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Mrs. Cary declared plaintively. "There are moments, Beatrice, when I think you talk nonsense." "I am sure you do!" An ironical smile played an instant round the small mouth, then she went on calmly: "Let us put our personal grievances against each other aside, mother. _Revenons a nos moutons._ You were saying, when I interrupted you, that you were afraid of Mr. Travers. Why?" "Why! You know as well as I do. I recognized him at once, and the sight of his face nearly gave me a heart stroke. Of course you remember him. He gave evidence against your poor, dear father when--" Beatrice Cary held up her hand. "That is one of the advantages of having discarded the mystery and halo," she said. "We do not need to go into any details concerning ourselves or the past. I know quite well to what you refer. To be quite honest, I _did_ recognize him, only I did not let him see that I did." "And then you ask why I am afraid!" "I fail to see what harm he can do us." "He can tell the truth." Beatrice Cary rose and began to slip into the white silk dress which hung across the back of her chair. "The truth!" she said meditatively. "That is something, mother, of which, I fear, you and I will never rid ourselves. It has chased us out of England and out of all possible parts of Europe; and, large though India is, it seems already to have tracked us down. It has a good nose for fugitives, apparently." Mrs. Cary sat up, mopping her florid face free from tears of irritability. "You will drive me mad one of these days!" she cried. "You laugh at everything. You laugh even at this, though it concerns our whole future here--" "Excuse me for interrupting you again. I take the matter very much to heart--so much so that there are moments when I am thoroughly weary of it, and feel inclined to write on a large placard: 'Here standeth Beatrice McConnel, alias Cary, daughter of the--'" "Be silent!" broke in the elder woman furiously. "Do you really want the whole Station to be taken into our confidence?" "I am sorry!" with half-sincere, half-mocking contrition. "I am as bad as you are. But, as I say, there are times when I should like to shriek the truth in the world's face, and see what it would do. I don't think anything could be worse than our present life."