His expression hardened a little.  The smile had passed from his lips.

“You never knew your cousin, I think?” he asked.

“Never,” she admitted.

“Then I do not think,” he said, “that you need waste your sympathy upon her.  Tell me, do you see that young lady in a mauve-coloured dress and a large hat, sitting three tables to the left of us?”

She looked across and nodded.

“Of course I do,” she answered.  “How handsome she is, and what a strange-looking man she has with her!  He looks very clever.”

Her uncle smiled once more, but his face lacked its benevolent expression.

“The man is clever,” he answered.  “His name is Norris Vine, and he is a journalist, part owner of a newspaper, I believe.  He is one of those foolish persons who imagine themselves altruists, and who are always trying to force their opinions upon other people.  The young lady with him—­is my daughter and your cousin.”

Virginia’s great eyes were opened wider than ever.  Her lips parted, showing her wonderful teeth.  The pink colour stained her cheeks.

“Do you mean that that is Stella?” she exclaimed.

Her uncle nodded, and paused for a moment to give an order to a passing maitre d’hotel.

“Yes!” he resumed, “that is Stella, and that is the man for whose sake she robbed me.”

Virginia was still full of wonder.

“But you did not speak to her when she came in!” she said.  “You nodded to the man, but took no notice of her!”

“I do not expect,” he said quietly, “ever to speak to her again.  I have been a kind father; I think that on the whole I am a good-natured man, but there are things which I do not forgive, and which I should forgive my own flesh and blood less even than I should a stranger.”

The colour faded from her cheeks.

“It seems terrible,” she murmured.

“As for the man,” he continued, “he is my enemy, although it is only a matter of occasional chances which can make him in any way formidable.  We speak because we are enemies.  When you have had a little more experience, you will find that that is how the game is played here.”

She was silent for several minutes.  Her uncle turned his head, and immediately two maitres d’hotel and several waiters came rushing up.  He gave a trivial order and dismissed them.  Then he looked across at his niece, whose appetite seemed suddenly to have failed her.

“Tell me,” he said, “what is the matter with you, Virginia?”

“I am a little afraid of you,” she answered frankly.  “I should be a little afraid of any one who could talk like that about his own child.”

He smiled softly.

“You have the quality,” he said, “which I admire most in your sex, and find most seldom.  You are candid.  You come from a little world where sentiment almost governs life.  It is not so here.  I am a kind man, I believe, but I am also just.  My daughter deceived me, and for deceit I have no forgiveness.  Do you still think me cruel, Virginia?”