“No princess, Major Strickland, but a base beggar brat,” said Lady Chillington, without heeding his last words.  “From the first moment of my seeing her I had a presentiment that she would cause me nothing but trouble and annoyance.  That presentiment has been borne out by facts—­by facts!” She nodded her head at the Major, and rubbed one lean hand viciously within the other.

“Your ladyship forgets that the child herself is here.  Pray consider her feelings.”

“Were my feelings considered by those who sent her to Deepley Walls?  I ought to have been consulted in the matter—­to have had time given me to make fresh arrangements.  It was enough to be burdened with the cost of her maintenance, without the added nuisance of having her before me as a continual eyesore.  But I have arranged.  Next week she leaves Deepley Walls for the Continent, and if I never see her face again, so much the better for both of us.”

“With all due respect to your ladyship, it seems to me that your tone is far more bitter than the occasion demands.  What may be the relationship between Miss Hope and yourself it is quite impossible for me to say; but that there is a tie of some sort between you I cannot for a moment doubt.”

“And pray, Major Strickland, what reason may you have for believing that a tie of any kind exists between this young person and the mistress of Deepley Walls?”

“I will take my stand on one point:  on the extraordinary resemblance which this child bears to—­”

“To whom, Major Strickland?”

“To one who lies buried in Elvedon churchyard.  You know whom I mean.  Such a likeness is far too remarkable to be the result of accident.”

“I deny the existence of any such likeness,” said Lady Chillington, vehemently.  “I deny it utterly.  You are the victim of your own disordered imagination.  Likeness, forsooth!” She laughed a bitter, contemptuous laugh, and seemed to think that she had disposed of the question for ever.

“Come here, child,” said the Major, taking me kindly by the hand, and leading me close up to her ladyship.  “Look at her, Lady Chillington,” he added; “scan her features thoroughly, and tell me then that the likeness of which I speak is nothing more than a figment of my own brain.”

Lady Chillington drew herself up haughtily.  “To please you in a whim, Major Strickland, which I cannot characterise as anything but ridiculous, I will try to discover this fancied resemblance.”  Speaking thus, her ladyship carried her glass to her eye, and favoured me with a cold, critical stare, under which I felt my blood boil with grief and indignation.

“Pshaw!  Major Strickland, you are growing old and foolish.  I cannot perceive the faintest trace of such a likeness as you mention.  Besides, if it really did exist it would prove nothing.  It would merely serve to show that there may be certain secrets within Deepley Walls which not even Major Strickland’s well-known acumen can fathom.”