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.
“I apologize for being so badly constructed,” he murmured, “but I don’t take in halves. Will it do if I give somebody my visiting-card?”