From the thought of Mr. Palma’s return, she could borrow no pleasant auguries, rather additional gloom and apprehension; and his absence had really been the sole redeeming circumstance that marked her arrival in New York.  With an unconquerable dread which arose from early childish prejudice and which she never attempted to analyze, she shrank from meeting him.

There came a quick low rap on the door, but she neither heard nor heeded it, and started when a warm hand removed those that covered her face.

“Just as I expected, you are having a good cry all to yourself.  No, your eyes are dry and bright as stars.  I daresay you have set us all down as a family of brutes; as more cruel than the Piutes or Modocs; as stony hearted as Solomon, when he ordered the poor little baby to be cut in half and distributed among its several mothers.  But there is so little justice left in the world, that I imagine each individual would do well to contribute a moiety to the awfully slender public stock.  Suppose you pay tithes to the extent of counting me out of this nest of persecutors?  Thank Heaven!  I am not a Palma!  My soul does not work like the piston of a steam-engine,—­is not regulated by a gauge-cock and safety-valve to prevent all explosions, to keep the even, steady, decorous, profitable tenor of its sternly politic way.  I am a Neville.  The blood in my veins is not ‘blue’ like the Palma’s, but red,—­and hot enough to keep my heart from freezing, as the Palma’s do, and to melt the ice they manufacture, wherever they breathe.  I am no Don Quixote to redress your grievances, or storm windmills; for verily neither mamma nor Erle Palma belongs to that class of harmless innocuous bugaboos, as those will find to their cost who run against them.  I am simply Olga Neville, almost twenty-three, and quite willing to help you if possible.  Shall we enter into an alliance—­offensive and defensive?”

She stood by the mantlepiece, slowly buttoning her glove, and looked quite handsome, and very elegant in her rich wine-coloured silk and costly furs.

Looking up into her face, Regina wondered how far she might trust that apparently frank open countenance, and Olga smiled, and added: 

“You are a cunning fledgling, not to be caught with chaff.  Have they sent you anything to eat?”

“I declined having anything.  My head aches.”

“Then do as I tell you, and you will soon feel relieved.  There is a bath-room on this floor.  Ring for Hattie, and tell her you want a good hot bath.  When you have taken it, lie down and go to sleep.  One word before I go.  Do try not to be hard on mamma.  Poor mamma!  She married among these Palmas, and very soon from force of habit and association she too grew politic, cautious; finally she also froze, and has never quite thawed again.  She is not unkind,—­you must not think so for an instant; she only keeps her blood down to the safe, wise prudent temperature of sherbet.  Poor mamma!  She does not like dogs; once she was dreadfully bitten, almost torn to pieces by one, and very naturally she has developed no remarkable ‘affinity’ for them since that episode.  Hattie will get you anything you need.  Take your bath and go to sleep, and dream good-natured things about mamma.”