“Well, it is rather a question, isn’t it?” he responded, with a cheerful smile which drove her frantic. “Do you know that our family is one of the oldest in Great Britain?” she demanded, after a moment’s pause. “Precisely. And mine is one of the newest. It would really have been a _mésalliance_, my dear marchioness.” The marchioness could hardly believe her ears. “Have you _no_ regard for descent?” she gasped. “My daughter has royal blood in her veins, Mr. Hammond.” “Ah! there you have me at a disadvantage,” he returned. “All my female ancestors were respectable married women.” The marchioness turned crimson. It was well known that the royal blood in the house of Mauleverer had entered it by irregular channels. “I am not accustomed to this kind of language,” she proclaimed, rising. “I shall request the marquis to call on you.” “That will suit me a great deal better. I shall be able to talk to the marquis,” was the grim answer. The marchioness swept towards the door. “I see I have made a mistake in coming here. I begin to ask myself whether you were really aware of what you were doing yesterday.” Hammond smiled pleasantly. “Ah, now, that sounds like rather a good explanation. I can say I was intoxicated, can’t I?” “Well--” The marchioness broke off short, her eyes fixed in stony horror on the doorway. “Lady Victoria Mauleverer and Mr. Despencer!” Victoria had been still considering how to deal with the letter she had received from Mr. Hammond, when the treacherous Despencer had come and informed her that her mother was on the way to her lover’s house to bring him to book. Her mind was instantly made up. She put on a hat, impressed Despencer into the service, ordered a hansom, and drove off on the track of her parent. The two newcomers were in the room, and the door had closed on the departing footman, before the marchioness recovered herself. “Victoria, you will oblige me by leaving this house immediately. I order it.” Victoria laughed negligently. “How absurd you are this morning, mother! You keep forgetting that I am over twenty-one,” she remarked. Then, crossing over to Hammond, she held out her hand with frank good-will. “Good-morning, Mr. Hammond!” The sight of her daughter calmly shaking hands with the man who had jilted her, as if nothing had happened, nearly turned her mother’s hair gray. Fortunately it was from the best maker, and could not turn gray. “Victoria,” she said, in a suffocated voice, “if you have no respect for yourself, perhaps you will have some respect for me! Mr. Hammond has grossly insulted me. Mr. Despencer, will you be good enough to take me to my carriage?” “No, he can’t do that yet,” interposed Victoria. “I brought him here as my chaperon, and I haven’t done with him.” Despencer glanced from the daughter to the mother. The contest was between fear and love.