‘You also have been disturbed by it, Miss Nunn.’

‘By the inquest?’ she returned, with barely veiled scorn.  ’Indeed I have not.’

‘Did you know that poor girl?’

‘Some time ago.’

‘Then it is only natural that her miserable fate should sadden you.’

He spoke as if with respectful sympathy, ignoring what she had said.

‘It has no effect whatever upon me,’ Rhoda answered, glancing at him with surprise and displeasure.

’Forgive me if I say that I find it difficult to believe that.  Perhaps you—­’

She interrupted him.

’I don’t easily forgive anyone who charges me with falsehood, Mr. Barfoot.’

’Oh, you take it too seriously.  I beg your pardon a thousand times.  I was going to say that perhaps you won’t allow yourself to acknowledge any feeling of compassion in such a case.’

’I don’t acknowledge what I don’t feel.  I will bid you good-afternoon.’

He smiled at her with all the softness and persuasiveness of which he was capable.  She had offered her hand with cold dignity, and instead of taking it merely for good-bye he retained it.

’You must, you shall forgive me!  I shall be too miserable if you dismiss me in this way.  I see that I was altogether wrong.  You know all the particulars of the case, and I have only read a brief newspaper account.  I am sure the girl didn’t deserve your pity.’

She was trying to draw her hand away.  Everard felt the strength of her muscles, and the sensation was somehow so pleasant that he could not at once release her.

‘You do pardon me, Miss Nunn?’

‘Please don’t be foolish.  I will thank you to let my hand go.’

Was it possible?  Her cheek had coloured, ever so slightly.  But with indignation, no doubt, for her eyes flashed sternly at him.  Very unwillingly, Everard had no choice but to obey the command.

‘Will you have the kindness to tell me,’ he said more gravely, ‘whether my cousin was suffering only from that cause?’

‘I can’t say,’ she added after a pause.  ’I haven’t spoken with Miss Barfoot for two or three days.’

He looked at her with genuine astonishment.

‘You haven’t seen each other?’

’Miss Barfoot is angry with me.  I think we shall be obliged to part.’

’To part?  What can possibly have happened?  Miss Barfoot angry with you?’

’If I must satisfy your curiosity, Mr. Barfoot, I had better tell you at once that the subject of our difference is the girl you mentioned.  Not very long ago she tried to persuade your cousin to receive her again—­to give her lessons at the place in Great Portland Street, as before she disgraced herself.  Miss Barfoot, with too ready good-nature, was willing to do this, but I resisted.  It seemed to me that it would be a very weak and wrong thing to do.  At the time she ended by agreeing with me.  Now that the girl has killed herself, she throws the blame upon my interference.  We had a painful conversation, and I don’t think we can continue to live together.’