As Stephen stood behind her chair he looked across the room, and saw Edmonson leaning with folded arms against a window.  The light fell over his face; he had been looking at Elizabeth, but his eyes met Archdale’s at once with an expression meant for cool scrutiny and a dash of insolent triumph at the victory he had scored.  Edmonson’s fierceness was not easily fettered; the dark shadow in his heart darted over his face, and, withdrawing as hastily, left to view a light that blazed in his eyes and only slowly died down into the cordial warmth necessary between guest and host, even under peculiar circumstances.  Stephen’s face darkened also, but his feeling was less, and his control greater.  Elizabeth was listening quietly to some account of a merry-making at which Katie must have been present, for her name occurred frequently in the narrative.  As she perceived that Archdale was behind her she looked round at him a moment, and by a few words included him in the conversation.  She was as entertaining as usual and rather more talkative after he came.  Yet he thought that under her ease of manner he detected a current of nervousness that made him the more anxious to carry out the purpose with which he had come to her.

But it was not easy to find any excuse for withdrawing her from the circle in which she had made herself so welcome.  At last, however, under cover of a general movement, which he had secretly instigated, he succeeded in getting her into the library, on the plea of a message to her father.  When there, he closed the door behind him, and said:—­

“I have a message to your father, it is true, Mistress Royal, but it is only to beg him to interfere.”

“Interfere?” she echoed with a nervousness that this time was unmistakable.

“Pray be seated,” he said, drawing a chair toward her as she stood by the mantel.

“Thank you, but—­I don’t mind standing.  What you—­the business will not take long, you said.”

“As you please.”  And he stood facing her on the opposite side of the great fireplace.

She heard his tones, glanced at him, and sat down.  He took a chair also, still placing himself so that he could watch her.  She grew plainly more nervous.

“Who is Mr. Hartly?” he asked, abruptly.

She looked at him in a frightened way, and the hand that she lifted to her throat was trembling.

“He is”—­she began, then she stopped; without any warning her expression and her manner changed, for with the coming of what she had dreaded came the strength to meet it.  There was no more tremulousness of voice or hand, and the face that looked at Stephen Archdale was the face of a woman who met him upon equal terms; yet, as he looked at her steadily, he was not quite sure even of that; it seemed to him that it would require an effort on his part to keep at her level; that at least he must stand at his full height.  She sat silent, meeting his steady gaze.  There was a dignity about her