“I’m not that, indeed!” protested Mrs. Aron, tremulously, also rising to her feet, “but I am in want—that is to say, I’d be thankful if you could spare me a little assistance to pay my way to Queenstown.”
“Well, you will not get it here,” replied Mrs. Doran with biting emphasis. “I’ve suspected what you wanted all along—money. You are a begging impostor. Thomson!”—to her man-servant—“show this person out, and do not admit her again on any consideration.”
“And so, is this what I’m to tell your sister?” cried the American, suddenly confronting her hostess, “that you turned me out of the house!”
“You may, for all I care—I don’t believe for a moment that you know her!”
“If I don’t”—a pause, during which she seemed to struggle for an expression—“I know you—and well—for a hard, avaricious, cruel woman, that grinds the poor, and that drove your husband into his grave.”
“There, that’s enough!” interrupted Mrs. Doran, whose face had assumed the colour of beetroot. “Another word and I send for the police, you abusive old vagabond!”
A clang at the hall door announced the Countess, and Mrs. Aron was hurried into the hall. Thus the coming and the parting guest came face to face. The parting guest walked slowly down the avenue, every now and then pausing to look back. As she stood for a last glance, she was overtaken by Ulick Doran on a prancing bay filly.
“Hullo!” he said, “what’s the matter?” He noticed that she had been crying. “Have you been up to see my mother?”
“Say!” she said in a choked voice, “I don’t feel like talking to—to any one just now—” and she moved on, evidently struggling with some overpowering emotion.
“Oh, now,” suddenly dismounting, “I’m not going to let you off like this! Won’t you tell me what is the trouble? Come now.”