‘You did,’ she said hotly.

’I told you I couldn’t promise to be acquainted with every detail of routine just at first.’

’Will you contradict me in this way!  You are telling untruths, I say.’

Cytherea’s lip quivered.  ‘I would answer the remark if—­if—­’

‘If what?’

‘If it were a lady’s!’

’You girl of impudence—­what do you say?  Leave the room this instant, I tell you.’

’And I tell you that a person who speaks to a lady as you do to me, is no lady herself!’

‘To a lady?  A lady’s-maid speaks in this way.  The idea!’

‘Don’t “lady’s-maid” me:  nobody is my mistress I won’t have it!’

‘Good Heavens!’

‘I wouldn’t have come—­no—­I wouldn’t! if I had known!’

‘What?’

‘That you were such an ill-tempered, unjust woman!’

‘Possest beyond the Muse’s painting,’ Miss Aldclyffe exclaimed—­

‘A Woman, am I!  I’ll teach you if I am a Woman!’ and lifted her hand as if she would have liked to strike her companion.  This stung the maiden into absolute defiance.

‘I dare you to touch me!’ she cried.  ’Strike me if you dare, madam!  I am not afraid of you—­what do you mean by such an action as that?’

Miss Aldclyffe was disconcerted at this unexpected show of spirit, and ashamed of her unladylike impulse now it was put into words.  She sank back in the chair.  ’I was not going to strike you—­go to your room—­I beg you to go to your room!’ she repeated in a husky whisper.

Cytherea, red and panting, took up her candlestick and advanced to the table to get a light.  As she stood close to them the rays from the candles struck sharply on her face.  She usually bore a much stronger likeness to her mother than to her father, but now, looking with a grave, reckless, and angered expression of countenance at the kindling wick as she held it slanting into the other flame, her father’s features were distinct in her.  It was the first time Miss Aldclyffe had seen her in a passionate mood, and wearing that expression which was invariably its concomitant.  It was Miss Aldclyffe’s turn to start now; and the remark she made was an instance of that sudden change of tone from high-flown invective to the pettiness of curiosity which so often makes women’s quarrels ridiculous.  Even Miss Aldclyffe’s dignity had not sufficient power to postpone the absorbing desire she now felt to settle the strange suspicion that had entered her head.

‘You spell your name the common way, G, R, E, Y, don’t you?’ she said, with assumed indifference.

‘No,’ said Cytherea, poised on the side of her foot, and still looking into the flame.

’Yes, surely?  The name was spelt that way on your boxes:  I looked and saw it myself.’

The enigma of Miss Aldclyffe’s mistake was solved.  ‘O, was it?’ said Cytherea.  ’Ah, I remember Mrs. Jackson, the lodging-house keeper at Budmouth, labelled them.  We spell our name G, R, A, Y, E.’