‘What was your father’s trade?’

Cytherea thought it would be useless to attempt to conceal facts any longer.  ‘His was not a trade,’ she said.  ‘He was an architect.’

‘The idea of your being an architect’s daughter!’

‘There’s nothing to offend, you in that, I hope?’

‘O no.’

‘Why did you say “the idea"?’

’Leave that alone.  Did he ever visit in Gower Street, Bloomsbury, one Christmas, many years ago?—­but you would not know that.’

’I have heard him say that Mr. Huntway, a curate somewhere in that part of London, and who died there, was an old college friend of his.’

‘What is your Christian name?’

‘Cytherea.’

’No!  And is it really?  And you knew that face I showed you?  Yes, I see you did.’  Miss Aldclyffe stopped, and closed her lips impassibly.  She was a little agitated.

‘Do you want me any longer?’ said Cytherea, standing candle in hand and looking quietly in Miss Aldclyffe’s face.

‘Well—­no:  no longer,’ said the other lingeringly.

’With your permission, I will leave the house to morrow morning, madam.’

‘Ah.’  Miss Aldclyffe had no notion of what she was saying.

’And I know you will be so good as not to intrude upon me during the short remainder of my stay?’

Saying this Cytherea left the room before her companion had answered.  Miss Aldclyffe, then, had recognized her at last, and had been curious about her name from the beginning.

The other members of the household had retired to rest.  As Cytherea went along the passage leading to her room her skirts rustled against the partition.  A door on her left opened, and Mrs. Morris looked out.

‘I waited out of bed till you came up,’ she said, ’it being your first night, in case you should be at a loss for anything.  How have you got on with Miss Aldclyffe?’

‘Pretty well—­though not so well as I could have wished.’

‘Has she been scolding?’

‘A little.’

’She’s a very odd lady—­’tis all one way or the other with her.  She’s not bad at heart, but unbearable in close quarters.  Those of us who don’t have much to do with her personally, stay on for years and years.’

‘Has Miss Aldclyffe’s family always been rich?’ said Cytherea.

’O no.  The property, with the name, came from her mother’s uncle.  Her family is a branch of the old Aldclyffe family on the maternal side.  Her mother married a Bradleigh—­a mere nobody at that time —­and was on that account cut by her relations.  But very singularly the other branch of the family died out one by one—­three of them, and Miss Aldclyffe’s great-uncle then left all his property, including this estate, to Captain Bradleigh and his wife—­Miss Aldclyffe’s father and mother—­on condition that they took the old family name as well.  There’s all about it in the “Landed Gentry.”  ‘Tis a thing very often done.’