"I know you. I remember you. You are Rachel Carter," he said hoarsely.
She was staring at him as if fascinated. Her lips moved, but no sound issued from them.
He hesitated for an instant and then turned to pick up his hat and gloves. "I came to see your daughter, madame,—as well you know. Permit me to take my departure."
"You are so like your—" she began with an effort, her voice deep and low with emotion. "So like him I—I was frightened. I thought he had—" She broke off abruptly, lowered her head in an attempt to hide from him the trembling lips and chin, and to regain, if possible, the composure that had been so desperately shaken. "Wait!" she cried, stridently. "Wait! Do not go away. Give me time to—to—"
"There is no need for us to prolong—" he began in a harsh voice.
"I will not keep you long," she interrupted, every trace of emotion vanishing like a shadow that has passed. She was facing him now, her head erect, her voice steady. Her dark, cavernous eyes were upon him; he experienced an odd, indescribable sensation,—as of shrinking,—and without being fully aware of what he was doing, replaced his hat upon the table, an act which signified involuntary surrender on his part.
"Where is Viola?" he demanded sternly. "She left word for me to come here. Where is she?"
"She is not here," said the woman.
He started. "You don't mean she has—has gone away with—"
"No. She has gone over to spend the afternoon with Effie Wardlow. I will be frank with you. This is not the time for misunderstanding. She asked Isaac Stain to give you that message at my request,—or command, if you want the truth. I sent her away because what I have to say to you must be said in private. There is no one in the house besides ourselves. Will you do me the favour to be seated? Very well; we will stand."