“It is all too dreadful,” said Mrs. Ormonde, in tearful tones.  “To think that you will allow yourself to be robbed, and permit the dear boys to be reduced to beggary, for a mere crochet—­it is too bad.  I never will believe this horrid man is the person he represents himself to be; never.”

“I wish you would go and speak to Mr. Newton.  He would explain the folly of resisting.”

“And how do you know that he is not bribed?” returned Mrs. Ormonde, with a little sob.  “Every one knows what dreadful wretches lawyers are.  And though I dare say you meant well, Katherine, but having induced us to believe you would provide for the boys, it is a little hard—­indeed very hard—­on Colonel Ormonde to have them thrown back on his hands, and it is really your duty to do something to relieve us.”

“Back on my hands!” echoed the Colonel.  “I’ll not take them back.  Why should I?  I have been completely swindled in the whole business.  I am the last man to support another fellow’s brats.  Why didn’t that old lawyer of yours ascertain whether your uncle’s son was dead or alive before he let you pounce upon the property and play Lady Bountiful with what did not belong to you?” And Colonel Ormonde paced the room in a fury, all chivalrous tradition melting away in the fierce heat of disappointed greed.

“You have no right to find fault with me,” cried Katherine, stung to self-assertion.  “I did well and generously by your children and yourself, Ada (I must say so, as you seem to forget it).  There is more cause to sympathize with me in the reverse that has befallen me than to throw the blame of what is inevitable on one who is a greater sufferer than yourselves.  Do you not know that the worst pang my bitterest enemy—­had I one—­could inflict is to feel I must give up the boys?  Matters are still unsettled, but if my cousin can be induced to deal mercifully with me, and not absorb my little all to liquidate what is legally due to him, I will gladly keep Cis and Charlie, and give them what I have, rather than throw them on Colonel Ormonde’s charity.  I am deeply sorry for your disappointment, but I have done nothing to irritate Colonel Ormonde into forgetting what is due to a lady and his wife’s benefactress.”  Katherine was thoroughly roused, and stood, head erect, with glowing eyes, and soft red lips curling with disdain.

“I always said she was violent; didn’t’ I, Duke?” sobbed Mrs. Ormonde.  “Katherine, you do amaze me.”

“There is no denying she is a plucky one,” he returned, with a gruff laugh.  “I too deny that you should consider it a misfortune for the boys to come under my care.  I owe a duty to my own son, and am not going to play the generous step-father to his hurt.  If you can’t come to advantageous terms with this—­this impostor, as I verily believe he is.  I’ll send the boys to the Bluecoat School or some such institution.  They have turned out very good men before this.”

“I am sure we could expect no more from Colonel Ormonde, and when you think that I shall be entirely dependent on him for”—­sob—­“my very gowns”—­sob—­“and—­and little outings—­and” a total break down.