I stood staring at her, at a loss to know whether by these words she sought to gain an advantage.  I knew not whether to pity or to be angry, such a strange blending she seemed of former pride and arrogance and later suffering.  There were the features of the beauty still, the eyes defiant, the lips scornful.  Sorrow had set its brand upon this protesting face in deep, violet marks under the eyes, in lines which no human power could erase:  sorrow had flecked with white the gold of the hair, had proclaimed her a woman with a history.  For she had a new and remarkable beauty which puzzled and astonished me,—­a beauty in which maternity had no place.  The figure, gowned with an innate taste in black, still kept the rounded lines of the young woman, while about the shoulders and across the open throat a lace mantilla was thrown.  She stood facing me, undaunted, and I knew that she had come to fight for what was left her.  I knew further that she was no mean antagonist.

“Will you kindly tell me to what circumstance I owe the honor of this—­summons, Mr. Ritchie?” she asked.  “You are a travelled person for one so young.  I might almost say,” she added with an indifferent laugh, “that there is some method and purpose in your travels.”

“Indeed, you do me wrong, Madame,” I replied; “I am here by the merest chance.”

Again she laughed lightly, and stepping past me took her seat on the oak from which I had risen.  I marvelled that this woman, with all her self-possession, could be the same as she who had held her room, cowering, these four days past.  Admiration for her courage mingled with my other feelings, and for the life of me I knew not where to begin.  My experience with women of the world was, after all, distinctly limited.  Mrs. Temple knew, apparently by intuition, the advantage she had gained, and she smiled.

“The Ritchies were always skilled in dealing with sinners,” she began; “the first earl had the habit of hunting them like foxes, so it is said.  I take it for granted that, before my sentence is pronounced, I shall have the pleasure of hearing my wrong-doings in detail.  I could not ask you to forego that satisfaction.”

“You seem to know the characteristics of my family, Mrs. Temple,” I answered.  “There is one trait of the Ritchies concerning which I ask your honest opinion.”

“And what is that?” she said carelessly.

“I have always understood that they have spoken the truth.  Is it not so?”

She glanced at me curiously.

“I never knew your father to lie,” she answered; “but after all he had few chances.  He so seldom spoke.”

“Your intercourse with me at Temple Bow was quite as limited,” I said.

“Ah,” she interrupted quickly, “you bear me that grudge.  It is another trait of the Ritchies.”

“I bear you no grudge, Madame,” I replied.  “I asked you a question concerning the veracity of my family, and I beg that you will believe what I say.”