In the meantime the conversation in the drawing-room has been going on.

“Of course, if you think you can persuade him,” says Mrs. Bethune presently.

“I know I shall.  One can always persuade a man where his interests lie.  Besides, I have great weight with him.  I tell you I shall manage him.  I could always manage his father.”

A curious expression crosses Mrs. Bethune’s face.  The present Baronet may not prove so easy of management as his father!

“Well, I can only wish you success,” says she, with a shrug.  “By the way, Margaret did not back you up in this scheme as cordially as I deemed possible.”

“Margaret is troublesome,” says Lady Rylton.  “Just when you expect her to sympathize with you, she starts off at a tangent on some other absurd idea.  She is full of fads.  After all, it would be rash to depend on her.  But you, Marian—­you owe me much.”

“How much?  My life’s blood?”

Mrs. Bethune lets her hands fall clasped upon her knees, and, leaning over them, looks at her aunt—­such a wonderfully young aunt, with her yellow hair and her sparkling eyes!  Marian’s lips have taken a cynical turn; her smile now is unpleasant.

“What a hideous expression!” says Lady Rylton, shuddering.  “You spoil yourself, Marian; you do indeed.  You will never make a good marriage if you talk like that.  ’Life’s blood’!—­detestable!"

“I don’t desire a good marriage, as you regard it.”

Lady Rylton sits suddenly quite upright.

“If you mean marriage with Maurice,” says she, “put that out of your head.  You must be mad to cherish such a hope.  You are both paupers, for one thing, and for the rest, I assure you, my dear, Maurice is not as infatuated about you as you are about him!”

Mrs. Bethune makes a sudden movement; it is slight.  Her face darkens.  One reading between the lines might at this moment see that she could have killed Lady Rylton with a wondrous joy.  Killing has its consequences, however, and she only stands quite quiet, looking at her foe.  What a look it is!

“It is you who are mad,” says she calmly.  “What I meant was that I should probably marry some rich nobody for the sake of his wealth.  It would be quite in my line.  I should arrange him, form him, bring him into Society, even against Society’s will!  There is a certain excitement in the adventure.  As for Maurice, he is no doubt in your eyes a demigod—­in mine,” with infinite contempt, “he is a man.”

“Well, I hope you will keep to all that,” says Lady Rylton, who is shrewd as she is cruel, “and that you will not interfere with this marriage I have arranged for Maurice.”

“Why would I interfere?”

“Because you interfere always.  You can’t bear to see any man love any woman but yourself.”

Mrs. Bethune smiles.  “A common fault.  It belongs to most women.  But this girl—­you like her?”