Victoria’s self-control began to break down.

“I venture to think he will not find it so,” she said, with quickened breath.  “In these days it is not so simple to defy the common conscience—­as it once was.  I fear indeed that Mr. Faversham has already lost the respect of decent men!”

“By becoming my agent?”

“Your tool—­for actions—­cruel, inhuman things—­degrading to both you and him.”

She had failed.  She knew it!  And all that remained was to speak the truth to him, to defy and denounce him.

Melrose surveyed her.

“The ejectment order has been served at Mainstairs to-day, I believe; and the police have at last plucked up their courage to turn those shiftless people out.  There, too, I understand, Lady Tatham, you have been meddling.”

“I have been trying to undo some of your wrong-doing,” she said, with emotion.  “And now—­before I go—­you shall not prevent me from saying that I regard it perhaps as your last and worst crime to have perverted the conscience of this young man!  He has been well thought of till now:  a decent fellow sprung from decent people.  You are making an outcast—­a pariah of him.  And you think money will compensate him!  When you and I knew each other, Edmund”—­the name slipped out—­“you had a mind—­one of the shrewdest I ever knew.  I appeal to that.  It is not so much now that you are wicked or cruel—­you are playing the fool!  And you are teaching this young man to do the same.”

She stood confronting him, holding herself tensely erect—­a pale, imperious figure—­the embodiment of all the higher ideals and traditions of the class to which they both belonged.

In her agitation she had dropped her glove.  Melrose picked it up.

“On that I think, Lady Tatham, we will say farewell.  I regret I have not been able to oblige you.  My wife comes from a needy class—­accustomed to manage on a little.  My daughter has not been brought up to luxury.  Had she remained with me, of course, the case would have been different.  But you will find they will do very well on what I have provided for them.  I advise you not to waste your pity.  And as for Mr. Faversham, he will take good care of himself.  He frames excellently.  And I hope before long to see him married—­to a very suitable young lady.”

They remained looking at each other, for a few seconds, in silence.  Then Victoria said quietly, with a forward step: 

“I bid you good evening.”

He stood at the door, his fingers on the handle, his eyes glittering and malicious.

“I should have liked to have shown you some of my little collections,” he said, smiling.  “That verre eglomisee, for instance”—­he pointed to it—­“it’s magnificent, though rather decadent.  They have nothing like it in London or Paris.  Really—­you must go?”

He threw the door open, bowing profoundly.

“Dixon!”