Ida found her thoughts wandering after a few minutes, and grew absent-minded; but Mr. George Powler was launched, on his favourite subject, was delighted with the condescension of the beautiful and stately listener, and did not notice that she was scarcely listening; did not notice also that Mrs. Heron was looking discontented and sniffing peevishly, and that Isabel’s face wore an expression of jealousy and resentment.  The fact was, that the poor man had quite forgotten the other young woman—­and the other young woman knew it.

Suddenly their silence bore down upon Ida’s absent-mindedness, she felt rather than saw that something was the matter, and she got up, in the middle of one of Mr. George Powler’s fluent but badly constructed sentences, and going over to Isabel asked her to play something.

Isabel flushed.

“Oh, you had better sing,” she said; “Mr. Powler would like that better, I’m sure.”

“Oh, yes; please do!” pleaded the man; and Ida, trying to conceal her weariness and distaste, went to the piano and sang the shortest song she knew.

Her acquiescence was unfortunate in its result, for it completed in Mr. George Powler’s bosom the havoc which her face and voice had wrought.  He pressed her to sing again, beat time with his large hand and badly groomed head, and was enthusiastic in his praises and seemed so disappointed when she refused, that he seconded her appeal to Isabel with an obviously forced politeness.

Isabel went to the piano, but she was at no time a very brilliant performer, and the poor girl was so upset by Ida’s unconscious and unwilling superiority, that she broke down in the middle of one of those hideous drawing-room pieces which seem specially “arranged” for the torture of those who are blessed or cursed with musical taste.

The conversation naturally lagged and languished under these circumstances, and Mr. George Powler presently rose to take his leave.  He was not asked to remain to dinner though Mrs. Heron had intended inviting him, and had made secret and flurried preparations.  He shook hands with Ida with marked empressement and nervousness, and seemed as if he could scarcely tear himself away.

When he had gone the mother and daughter sat bolt upright in their chairs and stared before them in a pregnant silence; and Ida, wondering what was the matter, was about to leave the room, when Mrs. Heron said in a hard, thin voice: 

“One moment, Ida, if you please.”

Ida paused at the door with her book in her hand, startled from her dreaminess by the woman’s tone and manner.

“You had better close the door, Ida.  I should not like the servants to overhear what it is my duty to say to you.”

Ida closed the door and stood expectantly, and Mrs. Heron continued: 

“I trust I am not one to find fault unnecessarily.  I know it is the duty of a Christian to be patient and long-suffering; but there is a limit to one’s endurance, and I regret to say that you have passed that limit.  I should not be fulfilling my duty to a young person who is under my charge if I refrained from pointing out to you that your conduct, since you have been under our roof, has been reprehensible and disgraceful.”