"I'll inquire, Miss Meadowsweet."
"I think he is. I think you'll find him in the study. Ask him to have the goodness to come to Mrs. Bertram's room."
Clara withdrew. Beatrice began slowly to pace up and down the floor.
"I belong to the canaille," she murmured. "And my father—my father is taunted because he earned his bread in trade. Mrs. Bertram, I am glad I don't belong to your set."
Beatrice had never been so angry in all her life before. The anger of those who scarcely ever give way to the emotion has something almost fearful about it. Mrs. Bertram was a passionate woman, but she cowered before the words and manner of this young girl. She had taunted Beatrice. The country girl now was taunting her, and she shrank away in terror.
The door was opened, and Loftus Bertram came in. Beatrice went up to him at once.
"I have prepared the way for you, Loftus," she said. "It is your turn now to speak. Tell your mother the truth."
"Yes, my son."
Mrs. Bertram looked up in his face. Her look was piteous; it disarmed Beatrice; her great anger fled. She went up to the poor woman, and stood close to her.
"Speak, Loftus," she said. "Be quick, be brave, be true. Your mother cannot bear much. Don't keep her in suspense."