Giddy's eyes shift uneasily. Then she speaks straight out: "I can't have your people! My dear child, it would be madness--positive madness, both to yourself and to me. There, there, don't look so blank; one would think I had suggested murdering good Mrs. Grebby and her dear fat husband. Can't you see it, Eleanor? You have a good position in Richmond, and you want to take it and fling it into the river, as it were. You want to flaunt your parentage at my party before everyone." "Yes," says Eleanor firmly; "I am not ashamed of them, it is not in me to be ashamed. What is wrong with them?" Giddy's mouth curves, her little foot taps impatiently on the floor at Eleanor's defiant attitude. "You _must_ see, or are you utterly blind--utterly imbecile? Now, child, take my warning--shunt the old people at once--trundle them off the London junction--send them puffing back in a slow train to the country--tell them never to enter Lyndhurst again--keep them out of Richmond. It was terrible yesterday--a scene I shall never forget. Lady MacDonald was so sweet over it, though I could see she was petrified." "I don't understand you," mutters Eleanor, pale and trembling. "If you have come here to insult me----" "Tut, tut! Don't be silly. But I am bitterly disappointed in you. I have taken so much pains over your social education. But you are like a girl in iron stays, the moment you remove the support (which is my guiding hand) you go flop! Now don't turn rusty, or cry," as tears of passion well into Eleanor's eyes. "I want you at my party--I want youth and beauty, for I have a reputation for producing lovely women, good-looking men, and distractingly sweet girls. Carol has promised to come early; now, for one, you would not like him to see your relations." "Yes, I should," she replies. "He would not mind, _he_ is a gentleman!" "I cannot have them, anyhow," declares Giddy firmly. "You may be offended, for I have spoken plainly----" "A great deal too plainly," retorts Eleanor fiercely. "You have not spared my feelings. You think yourself very grand, but my parents would not have hurt anyone as you have hurt me to-day! You sneer at them--hold them up to ridicule--while they are worth all the dressed-up Lady MacDonalds you toady to!" Her voice has risen shrilly; she forgets the folding doors. "Enough!" says Giddy, tossing her head. "I suffered at your hands yesterday. Pray spare me the effort of argument. Remember I have to entertain, and must reserve my strength. Besides, it is so vulgar to quarrel." Eleanor walks haughtily to the door and flings it open. "If I talk any more I shall stifle," she cries. Giddy gives a low laugh. "You will agree with me when you get over your temper," she declares, passing out. Eleanor sinks on her knees, and buries her head on Rover's shaggy coat. She is alone, and the faint sound of buried sobs throbs upon the silence of the room.