"Of whom are you talking?"
"Don't pretend ignorance, miss, for I won't have it. I mean Mr. Lister, as he calls himself, though I daresay he is no better than he should be."
"You have no right to say that."
"I'll say what I like and do what I like. Remember I am mistress; and as you depend entirely on me, miss, I order you to give up all idea of this Lister scamp and marry Silas Pence, who is——"
"I shall certainly not marry Silas Pence, or anyone but Cyril," said Bella in icy tones. "You have no right to interfere in——"
Mrs. Coppersley stamped and interrupted in her turn. "No right! no right!" she bellowed furiously. "I have every right. This house is mine, and the food you eat is mine. If I turned you out you would have to starve, for I am certain that your fine lover would have nothing to do with you. He's a bad man; your father said so."
"My father knew nothing of Mr. Lister."
"He knew that he was bad; he said as much. Why"—Mrs. Coppersley pointed a fat finger towards the round table in the centre of the room—"there's a photograph of him, and in a silver frame, too. What extravagance. How dare you spend my money on silver frames?"
She dashed forward to seize the photograph of Cyril, which Bella had brought down from her bedroom and had left unthinkingly on the table. Doubtless Mrs. Coppersley would have destroyed the portrait, but that Bella secured it before the good lady could reach the table. "Mr. Lister gave me this," said Bella, putting it behind her back; "frame and all; it is mine."
"And you dare to bring into the house the picture of a wicked profligate whom your father hated," roared Mrs. Coppersley, her red face shining with perspiration and her little eyes flashing with wrath.