“Take it like that!” she repeated in fierce scorn. “How else could a woman hear such news? How else do you suppose she could feel to be told that she had been hoodwinked, and kept from her duty and a man's heart very likely broken, to save the respectability of a worn-out old family. Oh, how could they have dared to do it? How could they have dared to do it?” “It was a beastly mistake,” he admitted. A whirlwind of scorn seemed to sweep over her. She could keep still no longer. She walked up and down the little room. Her hands were clenched, her eyes flashing. “To tell me that he was dead--to let him live out the rest of his poor life in exile and alone! Did they think that I didn't care? Cecil,” she exclaimed, suddenly turning and facing him, “I always loved my father! You may think that I was too young to remember him--I wasn't, I loved him always. When I grew up and they told me of his disgrace I was bitterly sorry, for I loved his memory--but it made no difference. And all the time it was a weak, silly lie! They let him come out, poor father, without a friend to speak to him and they hustled him out of the country. And I, whose place was there with him, never knew!” “You were only a child, Ernestine. It was twelve years ago.” “Child! I may have been only a child, but I should have been old enough to know where my place was. Thank God I have done with these people and their disgusting shibboleth of respectability.” “You are a little violent,” he remarked. “Pshaw!” She flashed a look of scorn upon him. “You don't understand! How should you, you are of their kidney--you're only half a man. Thank God that my mother was of the people! I'd have died to have gone smirking through life with a brick for a heart and milk and water in my veins! Of all the stupid pieces of brutality I ever heard of, this is the most callous and the most heartbreaking.” “It was a great mistake,” he said, “but I believe they did it for the best.” She sat down with a little gesture of despair. “I really think you'd better go away, Cecil,” she said. “You exasperate me too horribly. I shall strike you or throw something at you soon. Did it for the best! What a miserable whine! Poor dear old dad, to think that they should have done this thing.” She buried her face in her handkerchief and sobbed for the second time since her childhood. Davenant was wise enough to attempt no sort of consolation. He leaned a little forward and hid his own face with the palm of his hand. When at last she looked up her face had cleared and her tone was less bitter. It would have gone very hard with the Earl of Eastchester, however, if he had called to see his niece just then. “Well,” she said, “I want to know now why, after keeping silent all this time, you thought it best to tell me the truth this afternoon?” “Because,” he answered, “you told me that you had just been to see Scarlett Trent!” “And what on earth had that to do with it?”