’I am Irish on my father’s side, and Welsh on my mother’s; my name is O’Grady.’

‘But you were not born in the position you now occupy?’

’My father was a corporal in the Welsh Fusiliers; I was brought up to work for my bread.’

‘And your mother?’

‘Was the daughter, I believe, of a clergyman.’

‘I was sure of that—­and she educated you?’

‘She taught me what she herself knew.’

‘What brought you into Wales?’

‘Starvation.’

‘How did you get to Mr Prothero’s?’

‘I was a beggar and they took me in out of charity.’

‘Why did you leave them and come here?’

‘Because they wished it.’

‘Say because Owen Prothero was in love with you.’

No answer.

‘Do you love that rough sailor?’

No answer.

‘I must know all, Gladys.  I must and will.’

’Colonel Vaughan, I shall only answer such questions as you, as a gentleman, may think you have a right to ask a friendless girl, whom you forcibly detain.  You know you have no right to ask this.’

Colonel Vaughan looked at the usually shy girl, and saw a spirit and resolution in her bearing that he had not believed were in her.

’I beg your pardon, Gladys, I was wrong.  Can you endure the state of dependence you are now in?’

‘I consider myself independent I work for my bread, and am paid for it.’

‘But you might be independent without working.’

‘Impossible, unless beggary is independence.’

’Quite possible; I am sure you must feel your dependence on such an imperious mistress as you now have.’

’My present mistress, sir, Miss Gwynne, is far too noble to let any one feel dependent, even those who are, like myself, wholly her servants.’

‘You like Miss Gwynne?’

‘I respect and love her.  Perhaps you will now let me go to her.’

‘Not yet.  This independence.  I could make you independent.’

‘You!  How?  Impossible!’

‘I love you, Gladys.’

’Me!  This to me!  Is it to insult me that you have detained me?  Let me go, sir—­I insist—­and my mistress!  You, Colonel Vaughan, who have been paying her such attentions as no man has a right to pay a lady unless he loves her, to dare to say this to me, and I a servant in her house.  You, sharing her father’s hospitality, to deceive her, and insult me.  What have I done to encourage you to speak thus to me?’

Gladys stood still amidst the lights and shadows of the sun-crowned trees, and looked the colonel steadily in the face.  That look, voice, manner, completed the conquest that had been maturing for weeks and months.  The flushed cheek, the sparkling eyes, the tall, slight, erect figure, the voice, deportment—­all were those of a lady in mind as well as person.

’Gladys, hear me calmly.  I do not wish to insult you; I have never meant anything by my attentions to Miss Gwynne.’