“And you, young sir,” she went on, turning to him, “you remember the surprise visit you paid me one night, and the pleasant promenade we had through the rooms?”
“I remember,” said Bayre, with a strange feeling of sickness from the shock and the memories combined.
“And I’m sure you can’t have forgotten how we came to a room, the old powdering-room it was, where feminine finery lay strewed about in all directions, and where you found that one of the dresses was warm, as if it had just been taken off?”
Bayre nodded.
“Well, I had just taken it off, I, Eliza Ford; and it was I who had been amusing myself with all the trumpery you saw about—high-heeled shoes, fans, false hair, and the rest. Oh! it was a splendid farce to watch your face, and to linger and speak loud, and try to trick you into thinking that there was some young beauty in hiding about the place! Oh, I enjoyed the fun amazingly!”
“You didn’t show yourself very grateful,” said Bayre, drily, “to judge by the act Miss Eden surprised you in!”
The old woman grew suddenly grave, and from mocking her tone grew malicious.
“Grateful? No. I hated you. I would have killed you if I could,” she said spitefully.
“But why?” asked he, astonished at what looked like the outburst of a malignant old witch.
But to this question she made no answer. And yet, after all, the aversion she had shown him was the most surprising part of the whole matter.