In fierce longing to bring him once more into subjection, she stifled down her resentment, resisted her impulse to give way. As his insulting words stung her, she winced, like one enduring an unworthy blow.
"I made a mistake," said she in low tones. "I must own it. I actually did, as you suggest, hope that you would strain a point in my favour. All that I remember of you is noble. I fancied that the fact—which I admit—that I once injured you, so far from being against me, would constrain you the more to serve me, if you could."
"Indeed! So that was what you thought! It was rather clever of you, but not quite clever enough. I have to own that I don't at all consider that your having successfully hoodwinked me twenty years ago gives you a right to do it again. But let that pass. It is the mortgage which we must keep in mind. I think it not impossible that we may come to terms, that I may be able to afford you some relief—on conditions"—he held up his hand hastily as she turned impulsively on her seat—"on conditions, I say—you had better wait to hear me."
For the first time she let her eyes meet his. The cruelty, the ironic sense of mastery conveyed to her from beneath those half-shut lids, made her shudder involuntarily. So might an Inquisitor survey the victim brought bound into his presence. Still she kept up the pose—the only one that occurred to her scared wits—the pose of relying upon his nobility.
"I knew—I knew you could not mean to be merciless," she faltered.
"Don't go too fast," he replied coldly. "There is much to consider before thanks can appropriately be offered. In the first place, a few questions are necessary. To begin. Have you a daughter bearing a remarkable resemblance to yourself? And was she in London a week or two ago with some friends who have a motor-car—a young man and a young woman?"
Mrs. Mynors sat a moment speechless, considering this new turn of the incredible conversation. "Yes," she faltered at last, "that is quite true. Virginia was in town with our friends, the Rosenbergs."
His lip curled. "Virginia! You named her after yourself!"
"It was my husband's wish," she stammered. "She is the dearest, the best girl in the world!"
"Madam"—with mock reverence—"that is an unnecessary statement; she is your daughter—and she is, I feel sure, in all respects worthy of you. I saw her in a picture-gallery not long ago. Interested by the astonishing likeness, I took pains to overhear some of her conversation. The second Virginia is a replica of the first—which is saying a great deal. You are attached to her, madam."