‘Another lie,’ says Moore, with a sneer. ‘Lies become fine ladies, and you seem to be making yourself into one in a hurry. But you’ll find yerself out there’—with all his care he sometimes drops into his earlier form of speech, and that ‘yerself’ betrays him. ‘You’re not built for a fine lady. You—you’—furiously—‘who came out of the gutter! Yet I can see you have been doing the fine lady very considerably of late—so considerably that you can now lie like the best of them. But’—with a touch of absolute ferocity—‘I tell you, your lies will be of little use to you with me. I’ve dropped on the truth of your story, and there shall be an end of it. To my dead wife your dead mother left you, and from my dead wife you have come to me again. To me you belong; I am your guardian; you are bound by law to follow me.’ Ella makes a terrified gesture, then sinks back upon her seat, pale and chilled to her heart’s core. ‘To follow you?’ The words come from between her lips, whispered rather than uttered; but he hears them. ‘Ay, to follow me. You shall not stay in this home of infamy another hour if I can prevent it. And prevent it I shall.’ His rugged, disagreeable face, so full of strength, lights up as he speaks these words of command. ‘I cannot go,’ says the girl faintly. She puts out her hands again with that old, childish movement as if to ward off something hateful to her. There is so much aversion in this act that Moore’s temper fails him. ‘Hate me as much as you will, still, come with me you shall!’ says he. ‘Do you imagine——’ Here he takes a step towards her, and, catching her by the wrist, swings her to and fro with distinct brutality, then lets her go. ‘Do you think, having once found you, I shall let you go? No; though’—he makes a pause, and, standing before her, pours his words into her unwilling, nay, but half-understanding, ears—‘though I so despise you that I would now consider my name dishonoured if joined with yours—even now when I know you not to be worth the picking up—still, I will not let you go. You are mine, and with me you shall leave this old country and seek another. I start for Australia to-morrow week, and you shall start with me. Together we shall seek that land.’ ‘I cannot go,’ repeats Ella feebly. She looks magnetized. The old terror is full upon her, and it is but a dying effort to resist him that she now makes. ‘I—I——’ She stops again, and then bursts out: ‘It would kill me! Oh!’—holding out her hands wildly—‘why do you want me to go away? Why do you want me to leave this place? How’—miserably—‘can I be of any help to you? Of any use? You know’—in softest, most piteous accents—‘that I hate you—why, then, take me with you? Why not let me stay here in peace?’