The Iron King, however, noticed his granddaughter's coldness and reserve, and he deeply resented it.
One very rainy, dismal Sunday they were all at home and in the drawing room. Cora had sat for hours in silence, or replying to Mrs. Stillwater's frequent attempts to draw her into conversation in brief monosyllables, until at last the visitor arose and left the room, not hurt or offended, as Mr. Rockharrt supposed, but simply tired of staying so long in one place.
But the Iron King turned on his granddaughter and demanded:
"Corona Rothsay! why do you treat our visitor with such unladylike rudeness?"
Cora, brought roughly out of her sad reverie, gazed at the old man vaguely. She scarcely heard his question, and certainly did not understand it.
"Father," ventured Mr. Clarence, "I do not believe Cora could treat any one with rudeness, and surely she could never be unladylike. But you see she is absent-minded."
"Hold your tongue, sir! How dare you interfere?" sternly exclaimed the despot. "But I see how it is," he added, with the savage satisfaction of a man who has power to crush and means to do it—"I see how it is! That oppressed woman will never be treated by either of you with proper respect until I give her my name and make her my wife and the mistress of my house."