But it was not long--in fact, less than five minutes--before Connie Rashleigh discovered her mistake. Cara was a true chip of the old block, as hard and ruthless as herself, and with all the cocksureness and cruelty of youth. The girl’s manner was self-possessed, she talked glibly of Paris and their journey, and became surprisingly animated as she volubly described her new gowns. Meanwhile, her father looked on with swelling pride. His eyes seemed to ask, Was there ever such a complexion? such hair? such teeth? Connie Rashleigh stared and listened with a feeling of dismal apprehension--which apprehension proved to be but too well founded, when at a hint from her father, Cara, in a trailing tea-gown, sailed into the dining-room before her aunt, and sank into a chair at the head of the table. “Cara is beginning as she is to go on,” explained Hugo. “She is installed as the mistress of the house--the robes, and the keys--eh, Cara?” His methods were ever blunt: his idea of diplomacy a bludgeon! And Lady Rashleigh, choking with impotent fury, was compelled to subside into a place at the side of the board, with what appetite and grace she could assume. “Champagne, Carter--the ’94,” commanded his master; “we will drink Miss Blagdon’s health and welcome.” From this hour war--internecine, secret, and deadly--was declared between aunt and niece; but the victory was ever to the young. Cara ruled her father, dominated the household, and openly despised her predecessor. Cara was a ‘female bounder,’ in the opinion of that lady, and brutally selfish. She ‘grabbed’ everything: the best room, the use of the motor, the carriage, the pick of Mudie’s books, and the most comfortable chairs. She poured out tea, did the honours with amazing self-possession, and left her aunt to enjoy the agreeable sensation of being the odd one out,--and that, in the house in which she had been born! Hugo had a few words to say to his sister with respect to the new mistress. “Look here, old girl, you must make it all right for Cara. Take her round the Scrope lot, and write to those in the country, and tell them she is with me. I want her to get a flying start; and you know on which side your bread is buttered,” he added with blunt significance and doubtful taste. “After Christmas we are going to Monte Carlo, and you must trot back to your own flat; the girl says this house wants doing up, and that the curtains and paper in the drawing-room, make her sea-sick.” The curtains and paper, Lady Rashleigh’s joy and delight, had been her own selection!