Fiercely indignant, she entered the kitchen, and caught Dinah peeping at herself in the shining surface of the warming-pan after having removed her hat.

“Ah, that’s your game, my girl, is it?” she said.  “You’ve come back the grand lady, have you?  You’ve no further, use for your mother, I daresay.  She may work her fingers to the bone for all you care—­or ever will care again.”

Dinah whizzed round, scarlet and crestfallen.  “Oh, Mother!  How you startled me!  I only wanted to see if—­if my hair was tidy.”

“And that’s one of your lies,” said Mrs. Bathurst, with a heavy hand on her shoulder.  “They’ve taught you how to juggle with the truth, that’s plain.  Oh yes, Lady Studley that is to be, you’ve learnt a lot since you’ve been away, I can see—­learnt to despise your mother, I’ll lay a wager.  But I’ll show you she’s not to be despised by a prinking minx like you.  What did I send you in here for, eh?”

“To—­to see to the kettle,” faltered Dinah, shrinking before the stern regard of the black eyes that so mercilessly held her own.

“And there it is ready to boil over, and you haven’t touched it, you worthless little hussy, you!  Take that—­and dare to disobey me again!”

She dealt the girl a blow with her open hand as she spoke, a swinging, pitiless blow, on the cheek, and pushed her fiercely from her.

Dinah reeled momentarily.  The sudden violence of the attack bewildered her.  Actually she had almost forgotten how dreadful her mother could be.  Then, recovering herself, she went to the fire and stooped over it, without a word.  She had a burning sensation at the throat, and she was on the verge of passionate tears.  The memory of Isabel’s parting embrace, the tender drawing of her arms only a brief half-hour before made this home-coming almost intolerable.

“What’s that thing you’re wearing?” demanded Mrs. Bathurst abruptly.

Dinah lifted the kettle and turned.  “It is a fur-lined coat that—­that he bought for me in Paris.”

“Then take it off!” commanded Mrs. Bathurst.  “And don’t you wear it again until I give you leave!  How dare you accept presents from the man before I’ve even seen him?”

“I couldn’t help it,” murmured Dinah, as she slipped off the luxurious garment that Isabel had chosen for her.

“Couldn’t help it!” Bitterly Mrs. Bathurst echoed the words.  “You’ll say you couldn’t help him falling in love with you next!  As if you didn’t set out to catch him, you little artful brown-faced monkey!  Oh, I always knew you were crafty, for all your simple ways.  Mind, I don’t say you haven’t done well for yourself, you have—­a deal better than you deserve.  But don’t ever say you couldn’t help it to me again!  For if you do, I’ll trounce you for it, do you hear?  None of your coy airs for me!  I won’t put up with ’em.  You’ll behave yourself as long as you’re in this house, or I’ll know the reason why.”