He turned upon me with clinched hands and blazing eyes.  “You shall answer for these words, girl! if not now, years hence,” he said; “the seed of your insult has been thrown on fertile soil, I promise you!” and he laughed bitterly.

“I do not fear you,” I replied; all disguise was thrown off—­it was war to the knife between us now; “never have—­never can, in spite of your unmanly threats.  Evelyn must protect me henceforth from any further contact with you, however, until I am of age to take in hand my own affairs; Evelyn Erie, my guardian, and your fellow-executor, owes me this safeguard.  I trust, Mr. Bainrothe, we shall meet no more.”

I left the room—­left him in possession of the library, in which he paced up and down for an hour or more, like a caged panther.  There was a sealed note for me in his handwriting, under the massive paper-weight on the table, when I entered it again, which he had written and left there before his departure.  It ran thus—­for I read it derisively, and remember its contents still: 

“We have both been wrong, dear Miriam.  I, as the elder and more experienced offender—­therefore, the more responsible one—­claim it as my privilege to be the first to atone.  I cannot think, from what I know of you, that you will be long in following my example.  Let us forgive one another.  Fate has thrown us together, and we must not afford a malicious world the spectacle of our inconsistency, or the satisfaction of seeing us quarrel, after so many years of harmony.

“As to Claude, you and he must settle your own matters.  I wash my hands of the whole transaction from this hour, supposing that common-sense will triumph at last, and reconcile your differences.

“Yours as ever, truly and devotedly,

“BASIL BAINROTHE.”

I did not answer this note—­I could not discreetly, although I tried to do so several times.  I could not conquer sufficiently my deep disgust of his insupportable behavior to respond kindly, at that time, to any overture of Mr. Bainrothe’s, nor did I wish to write one rude word to him in connection with so delicate a subject as that of our late discussion.

He came no more until after Evelyn’s return, and then only on necessary business; inquiring for her alone, and holding on such occasions secret conclaves with her invariably in the library.  Whenever we met casually, however, whether in the street or my own house, he was polite and easy in his deportment, even gracious.

With Claude it was otherwise; he avoided me sedulously, and, although I have reason to think he met and joined Evelyn frequently, and even by appointment in her long walks, he never called to see her or paid her open attentions.  Yet I found that he had followed my counsels.

A day or two before he sailed for Copenhagen to join the legation in Denmark, an exception to this rule of avoidance was made by both father and son, who came in as had been usual with them in other days, informally, in the evening.