'Yes, my lady—'
'And why do you want to see me?'
'I wish to apologise—most sincerely—to your ladyship—for my behaviour of last evening—'
'Oh, indeed!' the listener interrupted contemptuously. 'I am glad you have come to your senses. But your apology must be offered to Miss Shale—if my daughter cares to listen to it.'
May had foreseen this. It was the bitterest moment of her ordeal. Flushing scarlet, she turned towards the younger woman.
'Miss Shale, I beg your pardon for what I said yesterday—I beg you to forgive my rudeness—my impertinence—'
Her voice would go no further; there came a choking sound. Miss Shale allowed her eyes to rest triumphantly for an instant on the troubled face and figure, then remarked to her mother—
'It's really nothing to me, as I told you. I suppose this person may leave the room now?'
It was fated that May Rockett should go through with her purpose and gain her end. But fate alone (which meant in this case the subtlest preponderance of one impulse over another) checked her on the point of a burst of passion which would have startled Lady Shale and Miss Hilda out of their cold-blooded complacency. In the silence May's blood gurgled at her ears, and she tottered with dizziness.
'You may go,' said Lady Shale.