At this point John Heron’s ring and knock were heard at the door; with a cry of terror, the unfortunate mother succeeded in dragging the feebly struggling Joseph out of the room, and with Isabel’s assistance, hustled and pushed him up the stairs before his father was let in.  After a time Mrs. Heron came down again, and Ida heard her and her husband talking together—­you couldn’t whisper in one room of Laburnum Villa without being heard in another one—­and presently the drawing-room door opened and John Heron entered; Ida had waited, for she had expected him.  He was red and swollen with pomposity and resentment, though he assumed a “more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger” air, and threw a deeply grieved tone into his harsh, raucous voice.

“I am deeply grieved and shocked, Ida,” he began, “to hear from your cousin so deplorable an account of your conduct.  I am not so unwise as to look for gratitude in this world, but I did not think you would repay our kindness and consideration by attempting to wreck the happiness of a quiet and godly home.  Of course, I make all allowances for your bringing-up; I am aware that in the state of life from which we rescued you, the spiritual and the religious were entirely absent; but I had hopes that our precept and, I may say, example, the influence of a deeply religious family—­” by this time his voice had slid into the nasal whine and growl which it assumed in the pulpit; and Ida, notwithstanding her wretchedness, again felt an almost irresistible desire to laugh.

“Please tell me, Cousin John, what it is I have done, what it is you complain of?” she broke in.

Angered by the interruption, for there is nothing a man like John Heron hates worse, he snapped out: 

“You have been trying to snare the affections of my son; you have even cast lascivious eyes at the stranger within our gates.”

The blood rushed to Ida’s face; then she laughed outright, the laugh of desperation; for indeed, she despaired of convincing these stupid people of her innocence.  The laugh naturally exasperated John Heron, and his gaunt face grew pallid for an instant.

“I understand!” he said.  “You treat our remonstrances with scorn, you scoff at our rebuke.”

“Yes; I am afraid I can’t help it, Cousin John,” said Ida.  “I am sorry that you should think me so wicked and so—­dangerous, and I quite agree with Isabel and her mother that if I am as bad as you say, I am not fit to live in a respectable house and with—­decent people.  It would be useless for me to assure you that you are all ridiculously mistaken.”

“My wife and daughter saw with their own eyes.  I am informed that my son is at this very moment in bed, prostrated by your heartless conduct; you have trifled with that most delicate and sacred of things, a human heart.  Go to your chamber, Ida, and there I trust you will seek repentance on your knees.”

There was silence for a moment, then Ida said, very quietly: