“If I were a man, in your place, I would have the great Sir Stephen at my feet, to make or to break as I pleased.  I would never rest until I could be able to say:  ’You’re a great man in the world’s eyes, but I am your master; you are my puppet, and you have to dance to my music, whether the tune be a dead march or a jig.’  That is what I should do if I were a man; but I am only a girl, and it seems to me nowadays that men have more of the woman in them than we have.”

He stopped and stared at her in the moonlight, a dark frown on his face, his eyes heavy with doubt and suspicion.

“Look here, my girl,” he said, “you are showing up in a new light to-night.  You are talking as your mother used to talk.  And you aren’t doing it without a purpose.  What is it?  What grudge can you, a mere girl who has only known him for a couple of days, have against Sir Stephen?”

She smiled.

“Let us say that I am only concerned for my father’s wounded pride and honour,” she said.  “Or let us say that I have a game of my own to play, and that I am asking you to help me while you gratify your own desire for revenge.  Will you help me?”

“Tell me—­tell me what your game is.  Good Lord!”—­with a scowl.  “Fancy you having a game:  it’s—­it’s ridiculous!”

“Almost as ridiculous as calling me a girl and expecting to see me playing with a doll or a hoop,” she returned, calmly.  “But you needn’t reply.  I can see you mean to do it, like a good and indulgent father; and some day, perhaps soon, I will, like a good and dutiful daughter, tell you why I wanted you to do it.  Is that you, Mr. Orme?  Will I come and sing?  Oh, yes, if you wish it.  Where is the little dog?” she asked, looking up at him with a new expression in her languorous eyes, as she glided beside him.

“Asleep on my bed,” replied Stafford, with a laugh.  “My man has turned him off and made him a luxurious couch with cushions three or four times, but he would persist on getting on again, so he’ll have to stay, I suppose?”

“Are you always so good-natured?” she asked, in a low voice.  “Or do you reserve all your tenderness of heart for dogs and horses—­as Mr. Howard declares?”

“Mr. Howard is too often an ass,” remarked Stafford, with a smile.

“You shall choose your song, as a reward for your exertions this afternoon,” she said, as he led her to the piano.

Most of the men in the crowd waiting eagerly for the exquisite voice would have been moved to the heart’s core by her tone and the expression in her usually cold eyes, but Stafford was clothed in the armour of his great love, and only inclined his head.

“Thanks:  anything you like,” he said, with the proper amount of gratitude.

She shot a glance at him and sank into the music-seat languidly.  But a moment afterwards, as if she could not help herself, she was singing a Tuscan love-song with a subdued passion which thrilled even the blase audience clustered round her.  It thrilled Stafford; but only with the desire to be near Ida.  A desire that became irresistible; and when she had finished he left the room, caught up his hat and overcoat and went out of the house.