It was easy to convince herself that Catalina had lost the train at Albacete on purpose. When her husband had received Captain Over’s telegram she had assumed that the Englishman had persuaded the girl to return, eager, no doubt, to be rid of her. She was not prone to think evil, and had one of her daughters or the approved young women of her circle been left with a young man at a way-station for two days and nights, she might have given way to nerves but never to suspicion. But as the crowning iniquity of the author of her downfall, it gave her the opportunity she had coveted, and she burned to take advantage of it. When Catalina finally announced herself, Mrs. Moulton was standing in the middle of her bedroom and Jane was reading by the window. The latter nodded as the prodigal entered, and returned to her book. “Well,” said Catalina, amiably, “how are you all? I am glad you are rid of the peasant at last. Where is Lydia?” She paused, blinking under the cold glare of Mrs. Moulton’s eyes. “What is the matter?” she asked, haughtily. “Cousin Lyman said you were angry, but you must have known how I was left. I am sorry you didn’t have Baedeker with you.” This was an unusual concession for Catalina, but something in the bitter and contemptuous face made her vaguely uneasy. “You were left on purpose,” said Mrs. Moulton, deliberately. Catalina made a quick step forward, the breath hissing through her teeth. She looked capable of physical violence, but Mrs. Moulton continued in the same cold, even tones: “You remained behind in order to be alone with Captain Over for two days and nights. You are not fit to associate with my daughters. You are a wicked, abandoned creature, and I refuse—I absolutely refuse—to shelter your amours. If you appeal to my husband I shall tell him to choose between us.” Catalina fell back, staring. Innocent she might be but not ignorant. It was impossible to mistake the woman’s meaning, and in a flash she understood that by the evil-minded evil might be read into her adventure. It was then, however, that she showed herself thoroughbred. Her anger left her as abruptly as it had come. She drew herself up, bowed impersonally, and left the room. Mrs. Moulton, trembling, sank into a chair, and Jane, protesting that her parent had behaved like an empress, fetched the aromatic salts. But Mrs. Moulton, having unburdened her hate, had parted with its sustaining power, and was flat and cowed in the reaction. “Does it pay?” she demanded again and again. “Does it pay?” XV