“And pray, is there nothing to make her going to the music-room advisable or necessary?  Has she no music to learn, or studies to pursue?  Pshaw!  Mrs. Marston, what needs all this noise about nothing?  Go, miss,” he added, sharply and peremptorily, addressing Rhoda, “go this moment to the music-room.”

The girl glided from the room, and mademoiselle, as she followed, shot a glance at Mrs. Marston which wounded and humbled her in the dust.

“Oh!  Richard, Richard, if you knew all, you would not have subjected me to this indignity,” she said; and throwing her arms about his neck, she wept, for the first time for many a long year, upon his breast.

Marston was embarrassed and agitated.  He disengaged her arms from his neck, and placed her gently in a chair.  She sobbed on for some time in silence—­a silence which Marston himself did not essay to break.  He walked to the door, apparently with the intention of leaving her.  He hesitated however, and returned; took a hurried turn through the room; hesitated again; sat down; then returned to the door, not to depart, but to close it carefully, and walked gloomily to the window, whence he looked forth, buried in agitating and absorbing thoughts.

“Richard, to you this seems a trifling thing; but, indeed it is not so,” said Mrs. Marston, sadly.

“You are very right, Gertrude,” he said, quickly, and almost with a start; “it is very far from a trifling thing; it is very important.”

“You don’t blame me, Richard?” said she.

“I blame nobody,” said he.

“Indeed, I never meant to offend you, Richard,” she urged.

“Of course not; no, no; I never said so,” he interrupted, sarcastically; “what could you gain by that?”

“Oh!  Richard, better feelings have governed me,” she said, in a melancholy and reproachful tone.

“Well, well, I suppose so,” he said; and after an interval, he added abstractedly, “This cannot, however, go on; no, no—­it cannot.  Sooner or later it must have come; better at once—­better now.”

“What do you mean, Richard?” she said, greatly alarmed, she knew not why.  “What are you resolving upon?  Dear Richard, in mercy tell me.  I implore of you, tell me.”

“Why, Gertrude, you seem to me to fancy that, because I don’t talk about what is passing, that I don’t see it either.  Now this is quite a mistake,” said Marston, calmly and resolutely—­“I have long observed your growing dislike of Mademoiselle de Barras.  I have thought it over; this fracas of today has determined me; it is decisive.  I suppose you now wish her to go, as earnestly as you once wished her to stay.  You need not answer.  I know it.  I neither ask nor care to whose fault I am to attribute these changed feelings—­female caprice accounts sufficiently for it; but whatever the cause, the effect is undeniable; and the only way to deal satisfactorily with it is, to dismiss mademoiselle at once.  You need take no part in the matter; I take it upon myself.  Tomorrow morning she shall have left this house.  I have said it, and am perfectly resolved.”