Ida had passed beyond the laughing stage by this time; her face was pale, her eyes flashing; but she was able to say, with an appearance of calm: 

“You are quite right, Mrs. Heron; I have no hesitation in saying that I did not wish your son to pay me any attention, much less—­Oh, do you not see how ridiculous it is?” she broke out, indignantly, and with a little desperate laugh.  Mrs. Heron’s face flamed.  “I don’t know what you mean by ridiculous,” she snapped.  “I should say Joseph was quite good enough a match for you; and I’ve no doubt you think so, though you pretend to sneer at him.”

“Let me assure you, Mrs. Heron, that I have never thought of your son as a possible husband,” said Ida.  “His attentions to me are more than unwelcome—­and he knows it.”

“Oh! then you admit that the poor boy is in love with you, that he has told you?  You see, you can’t deceive me; I knew it.  I wonder you aren’t ashamed of yourself; at any rate, having caused trouble in the house that shelters you, that you haven’t shame enough to refrain from flirting, before our very eyes, with the first man that appears.”

Ida stared at her in amazement, too great for the moment to permit of resentment.

“What is this you accuse me of?” she asked.  “Oh, pray, pray, do not be so unreasonable, so unjust!”

Mrs. Heron wagged her head, as one who is not to be deceived by any affectation of innocence.

“No, thank you, Ida!” she exclaimed.  “That won’t do for us.  We’ve seen it with our own eyes, haven’t we, Isabel?”

Isabel took out her handkerchief and began to whimper.

“I should never have thought it of you, Ida,” she sobbed.  “And with George, too!  And I’d only just told you that—­that there had been things between us.  I do think you might have left him alone.”

Ida was half distracted.

“But you really cannot mean it!” she pleaded.  “I have done nothing, said nothing.  You surely do not complain of his speaking to me, of his being simply civil and polite!  Heaven knows I had no desire to exchange a word with him.  I would not have come down if Isabel had not asked me, and I had thought you would have considered it rude of me to remain upstairs.  Oh, what can I say to convince you that you are mistaken, that I never gave a thought to this gentleman—­I forget his name—­that I do not care if I never see him again, and that—­Isabel, surely you do not think me capable of the—­vulgarity, the stupidity, with which your mother charges me!”

Isabel’s sniffs and sobs only grew louder, and her demonstrative misery worked Mrs. Heron to a higher pitch of resentment and virtuous indignation.

“That is right, Isabel, do not answer her.  It is all pretence and deceit on her part.  She knows very well that she was doing her best to attract his attention, smiling and making eyes at him, and attempting to catch him just as she has caught poor Joseph.”