"I shall not go!" she answers, sharply. "I told you I would do it. I have asked this proud lady the reason of her scorn, and I am waiting for an answer."
Lady Vera faces her a moment in scornful silence, but her pallid cheeks, her intense gaze, and her curling lips, all betray the tumult in her breast. She turns to Captain Lockhart, with a soul's despair in her lovely eyes.
"Philip, will you go away, and leave me alone with this woman?" she asks, pleadingly.
It seems to him that Vera does not know what is best for herself. How can he go away, and leave her to bear the brunt of this coarse woman's fury alone?
"Forgive me for refusing you, dear," he whispers back, "but it is better that I should stay. I cannot leave you without a friend by your side."
A look of futile despair flashes over the lovely face, but she urges him no more. Her eyes turn from his handsome, tender face to meet Ivy's angry, insolent gaze.
"I ask you again, Lady Fairvale," exclaims the small fury, "why do you refuse to speak to us?"
"Oh, God, give me strength," Lady Vera prays, silently, "to keep the oath of vengeance made to my dying father!"
The memory of her parent's cruel wrongs flashes into her mind and steels her heart. She remembers her mother's broken heart, her father's ruined life, her own joyless, slavish girlhood, driven by these two women who now stand glaring stonily upon her, for Mrs. Cleveland, coming in search of her daughter, has become a sudden and amazed spectator of the curious scene.
"I will tell why I hold myself above you," Lady Vera answers, in a voice that quivers with scornful indignation. "It is because you are false and vile—a guilty woman, and a shameless sinner!"