But Catherine’s rare resolution held as firm as ever.  She got a little nearer to the door.  “Good-night, mamma,” was the only reply she made.

“Is that all you have to say to me?”

“I am tired, and I must rest.  Please let me go.”

Mrs. Presty threw open the door with a bang.

“You refuse to take my advice?” she said.  “Oh, very well, have your own way!  You are sure to prosper in the end.  These are the days of exhibitions and gold medals.  If there is ever an exhibition of idiots at large, I know who might win the prize.”

Catherine was accustomed to preserve her respect for her mother under difficulties; but this was far more than her sense of filial duty could successfully endure.

“I only wish I had never taken your advice,” she answered.  “Many a miserable moment would have been spared me, if I had always done what I am doing now.  You have been the evil genius of my life since Miss Westerfield first came into our house.”

She passed through the open doorway—­stopped—­and came back again.  “I didn’t mean to offend you, mamma—­but you do say such irritating things.  Good-night.”

Not a word of reply acknowledged that kindly-meant apology.  Mrs. Presty—­vivacious Mrs. Presty of the indomitable spirit and the ready tongue—­was petrified.  She, the guardian angel of the family, whose experience, devotion, and sound sense had steered Catherine through difficulties and dangers which must have otherwise ended in utter domestic shipwreck—­she, the model mother—­had been stigmatized as the evil genius of her daughter’s life by no less a person than that daughter herself!  What was to be said?  What was to be done?  What terrible and unexampled course of action should be taken after such an insult as this?  Mrs. Presty stood helpless in the middle of the room, and asked herself these questions, and waited and wondered and found no answer.

An interval passed.  There was a knock at the door.  A waiter appeared.  He said:  “A gentleman to see Mrs. Norman.”

The gentleman entered the room and revealed himself.

Herbert Linley!

Chapter XLVIII.

Be Careful!

The divorced husband looked at his mother-in-law without making the slightest sacrifice to the claims of politeness.  He neither offered his hand nor made his bow.  His frowning eyebrows, his flushed face, betrayed the anger that was consuming him.

“I want to see Catherine,” he said.

This deliberate rudeness proved to be the very stimulant that was required to restore Mrs. Presty to herself.  The smile that always meant mischief made its threatening appearance on the old lady’s face.

“What sort of company have you been keeping since I last saw you?” she began.

“What have you got to do with the company I keep?”

“Nothing whatever, I am happy to say.  I was merely wondering whether you have been traveling lately in the south part of Africa, and have lived exclusively in the society of Hottentots.  The only other explanation of your behavior is that I have been so unfortunate as to offend you.  But it seems improbable—­I am not your wife.”