At the same time, feeling toward Geoffrey as she felt now—­conscious as she was of not really desiring the reparation on which she was about to insist—­it was essential to the preservation of her own self-respect that she should have some purpose in view which could justify her to her own conscience in assuming the character of Mrs. Glenarm’s rival.

She had only to call to mind the critical situation of Blanche—­and to see her purpose before her plainly.  Assuming that she could open the coming interview by peaceably proving that her claim on Geoffrey was beyond dispute, she might then, without fear of misconception, take the tone of a friend instead of an enemy, and might, with the best grace, assure Mrs. Glenarm that she had no rivalry to dread, on the one easy condition that she engaged to make Geoffrey repair the evil that he had done.  “Marry him without a word against it to dread from me—­so long as he unsays the words and undoes the deeds which have thrown a doubt on the marriage of Arnold and Blanche.”  If she could but bring the interview to this end—­there was the way found of extricating Arnold, by her own exertions, from the false position in which she had innocently placed him toward his wife!  Such was the object before her, as she now stood on the brink of her interview with Mrs. Glenarm.

Up to this moment, she had firmly believed in her capacity to realize her own visionary project.  It was only when she had her foot on the step that a doubt of the success of the coming experiment crossed her mind.  For the first time, she saw the weak point in her own reasoning.  For the first time, she felt how much she had blindly taken for granted, in assuming that Mrs. Glenarm would have sufficient sense of justice and sufficient command of temper to hear her patiently.  All her hopes of success rested on her own favorable estimate of a woman who was a total stranger to her!  What if the first words exchanged between them proved the estimate to be wrong?

It was too late to pause and reconsider the position.  Julius Delamayn had noticed her hesitation, and was advancing toward her from the end of the terrace.  There was no help for it but to master her own irresolution, and to run the risk boldly.  “Come what may, I have gone too far to stop here.” With that desperate resolution to animate her, she opened the glass door at the top of the steps, and went into the room.

Mrs. Glenarm rose from the piano.  The two women—­one so richly, the other so plainly dressed; one with her beauty in its full bloom, the other worn and blighted; one with society at her feet, the other an outcast living under the bleak shadow of reproach—­the two women stood face to face, and exchanged the cold courtesies of salute between strangers, in silence.

The first to meet the trivial necessities of the situation was Mrs. Glenarm.  She good-humoredly put an end to the embarrassment—­which the shy visitor appeared to feel acutely—­by speaking first.