‘No, no!’—hurriedly. All at once it seems to her that she must tell Susan the whole truth; how it is with her, and her horror of being discovered by that man, and the past sadness of her life, and the present loneliness of it. But not now; another time, when they are quite alone. ‘The poet saw you, at all events,’ says Dom. ‘He’s not quite right in his head, poor old chap! and he got very mixed. He thought you were a Hindoo idol——’ ‘Dominick!’ Betty turns upon him indignantly. ‘How disgracefully ignorant you are! After all papa’s teaching! Hamadryads aren’t Hindoo idols. They are lovely things. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!’ ‘I am—I am,’ says Mr. Fitzgerald, with resignation. ‘I really don’t think I shall pass any exam.’ ‘You don’t try,’ says Susan, with a slight touch of anger. ‘You don’t put your mind into your work. And it is such a shame towards father. Why don’t you try?’ ‘He does try!’ says Betty angrily. She is so evidently on the defensive—on the side of the prisoner at the bar—that they all stare, a matter that brings her to her senses in a hurry. She to defend Dom, with whom she is always at daggers drawn! A gleam of pleasure in Dom’s eyes enrages her, and brings the crisis. ‘He does try,’ repeats she. ‘But’—with a glance at Dom meant to reduce him to powder—‘he has no brains.’ The glance is lost. Dom comes up smiling. ‘You’ve got it,’ says he. And then, ‘Anyway, Miss Moore, our only poet thought you were a sylvan goddess. Will that do, Betty? Didn’t he, Carew?’ ‘He’s a fool,’ says Carew morosely. ‘Did you notice him, Ella?’ asks Betty. ‘A little man with a dismal eye and a nose you could hang your hat on? If poets are all like that, defend me from them! He goes about as if he was searching for a corner in which to weep, and he looks as if——’ ‘“’E don’t know where ’e are,”’ quotes Dom. ‘Yes, I saw him. He was sitting near you, Susan; and I saw Mr. Wyndham, and——’ She pauses, and a faint colour steals into her cheeks. ‘Susan, who was that woman with the high things in her bonnet?’ ‘High things!’ Susan looks puzzled, and Ella goes on to describe Mrs. Prior’s bonnet with more extreme accuracy. ‘That was Mrs. Prior—Mr. Wyndham’s aunt. Fancy your noticing her! Do you know, Ella, I can’t bear her, or her daughter. They are all so—so unreal—so cruel, I think——’ But Ella is hardly listening. Her eyes are troubled. She is thinking—thinking. ‘It is strange,’ says she at last, ‘but, somehow, it seems to me as if I had seen her before. Not here—not now—but long, long, long ago.’ She makes a little movement of her hands as if driving something from her, then looks at Susan. ‘It is nonsense, of course.’ She is very pale, and her smile is dull and lifeless. ‘But—I have seen her somewhere in my past—or someone like her; but not so cold—so cruel.’ ‘She is Mr. Wyndham’s aunt,’ says Susan again. ‘Perhaps the likeness you see lies there.’