“I will not leave the room, I assure you, madame, without my pupil,” retorted mademoiselle, with resolute insolence.  “Your husband, madame, has invested me with this authority, and she shall obey me.  Miss Rhoda, I say again, go down to the music-room.”

“Remain where you are, Rhoda,” said Mrs. Marston again.  “Mademoiselle; you have long been acting as if your object were to provoke me to part with you.  I find it impossible any longer to overlook this grossly disrespectful conduct; conduct of which I had, indeed, believed you absolutely incapable.  Willett,” she continued, addressing the maid, who was evidently bursting with rage at the scene she had just witnessed, “your master is, I believe, in the library; go down, and tell him that I entreat him to come here immediately.”

The maid started on her mission with angry alacrity, darting a venomous glance at the handsome Frenchwoman as she passed.

Mademoiselle de Barras, meanwhile, sate, listless and defiant, in her chair, and tapping her little foot with angry excitement upon the floor.  Rhoda sate close by her mother, holding her hand fast, and looking frightened, perplexed, and as if she were on the point of weeping.  Mrs. Marston, though flushed and excited, yet maintained her dignified and grave demeanor.  And thus, in silence, did they all three await the arrival of the arbiter to whom Mrs. Marston had so promptly appealed.

A few minutes more, and Marston entered the room.  Mademoiselle’s expression changed as he did so to one of dejected and sorrowful submission; and, as Marston’s eye lighted upon her, his brow darkened and his face grew pale.

“Well, well—­what is it?—­What is all this?” he said, glancing with a troubled eye from one to the other.  “Speak, someone.  Mrs. Marston, you sent for me; what is it?”

“I want to know, Mr. Marston, from your own lips,” said the lady, in reply, “whether Rhoda is to obey me or Mademoiselle de Barras?”

“Bah!—­A question of women’s prerogative,” said Marston, with muttered vehemence.

“Of a wife’s and a mother’s prerogative, Richard,” said Mrs. Marston, with gentle emphasis.  “A very simple question, and one I should have thought needing no deliberation to decide it.”

“Well, child,” sad he, turning to Rhoda, with angry irony, “pray what is all this fuss about?  You are a very ill used young lady, I dare aver.  Pray what cruelties does Mademoiselle de Barras propose inflicting upon you, that you need to appeal thus to your mother for protection?”

“You quite mistake me, Richard,” interposed Mrs. Marston; “Rhoda is perfectly passive in the matter.  I simply wish to learn from you, in mademoiselle’s presence, whether I or she is to command my daughter?”

“Command!” said Marston, evading the direct appeal; “and pray what is all this commanding about?—­What do you want the girl to do?”

“I wish her to remain here with me for a little time, and mademoiselle, knowing this, desires her instantly to go to the music-room, and leave me.  That is all,” said Mrs. Marston.