Miss Aldclyffe’s eyes and thoughts were so intent upon the miniature that she had not been conscious of Cytherea’s start of surprise.  She went on speaking in a low and abstracted tone.

‘Yes, I lost him.’  She interrupted her words by a short meditation, and went on again.  ’I lost him by excess of honesty as regarded my past.  But it was best that it should be so. . . .  I was led to think rather more than usual of the circumstances to-night because of your name.  It is pronounced the same way, though differently spelt.’

The only means by which Cytherea’s surname could have been spelt to Miss Aldclyffe must have been by Mrs. Morris or Farmer Springrove.  She fancied Farmer Springrove would have spelt it properly if Edward was his informant, which made Miss Aldclyffe’s remark obscure.

Women make confidences and then regret them.  The impulsive rush of feeling which had led Miss Aldclyffe to indulge in this revelation, trifling as it was, died out immediately her words were beyond recall; and the turmoil, occasioned in her by dwelling upon that chapter of her life, found vent in another kind of emotion—­the result of a trivial accident.

Cytherea, after letting down Miss Aldclyffe’s hair, adopted some plan with it to which the lady had not been accustomed.  A rapid revulsion to irritation ensued.  The maiden’s mere touch seemed to discharge the pent-up regret of the lady as if she had been a jar of electricity.

‘How strangely you treat my hair!’ she exclaimed.

A silence.

’I have told you what I never tell my maids as a rule; of course nothing that I say in this room is to be mentioned outside it.’  She spoke crossly no less than emphatically.

‘It shall not be, madam,’ said Cytherea, agitated and vexed that the woman of her romantic wonderings should be so disagreeable to her.

‘Why on earth did I tell you of my past?’ she went on.

Cytherea made no answer.

The lady’s vexation with herself, and the accident which had led to the disclosure swelled little by little till it knew no bounds.  But what was done could not be undone, and though Cytherea had shown a most winning responsiveness, quarrel Miss Aldclyffe must.  She recurred to the subject of Cytherea’s want of expertness, like a bitter reviewer, who finding the sentiments of a poet unimpeachable, quarrels with his rhymes.

’Never, never before did I serve myself such a trick as this in engaging a maid!’ She waited for an expostulation:  none came.  Miss Aldclyffe tried again.

’The idea of my taking a girl without asking her more than three questions, or having a single reference, all because of her good l—­, the shape of her face and body!  It was a fool’s trick.  There, I am served right, quite right—­by being deceived in such a way.’

‘I didn’t deceive you,’ said Cytherea.  The speech was an unfortunate one, and was the very ‘fuel to maintain its fires’ that the other’s petulance desired.