One morning, therefore, she drove to her father's palace. The porter, on opening the gate to the Señora Clementina, was at once amazed and pleased; for though she was neither so smooth-tongued nor so liberal as the ex-florist, a sense of justice led the Duke's household to respect his daughter and contemn his mistress. The haughty lady, without looking at the man, merely said:
"Well, Rafael?" and went quickly up the steps.
"How is papa?" she asked of the servant who met her in the hall.
He was too much astonished to be able to reply.
"Well, fellow!" she repeated impatiently, "Where is papa? In the office, or in his study?"
"I beg your pardon, Señora; the Duke is well. I think he is in his study."
At this juncture, a waiting-maid, who had caught sight of her from the end of a passage, and heard her inquiries, flew off to warn the Señora, while Clementina hastened up the stairs to the first-floor. But before she could reach her father's room, the lady in possession stood in her path, looking straight into her face, with flashing eyes.
"Where are you going?" she asked, in a voice husky with excitement.
"Who are you?" asked Clementina, lifting her head with supreme disdain, and looking down on her.
"I am the mistress of this house," was the reply, but the speaker turned pale.