Her breath came and went quickly—­a crimson flush was on her cheeks—­she looked transfigured—­beautiful.  Lady Blythe stared at her in wide-eyed disdain.

“You are exceedingly rude and stupid,” she said—­“You talk like a badly-trained actress!  And you are quite blind to your own interests.  Now please remember that if you refuse the offer I make you, I shall never trouble about you again—­you will have to sink or swim—­and you can do nothing for yourself—­without even a name—­”

“Have you never heard,” interrupted Innocent, suddenly, “that it is quite possible to make a name?”

Her “mother” was for the moment startled—­she looked so intellectually strong and inspired.

“Have you never thought,” she went on—­“even you, in your strange life of hypocrisy—­”

“Hypocrisy!” exclaimed Lady Blythe—­“How dare you say such a thing!”

“Of course it is hypocrisy,” said the girl, resolutely—­“You are married to a man who knows nothing of your past life—­is not that hypocrisy?  You are a great lady, no doubt—­you have everything you want in this world, except children—­one child you had in me, and you let me be taken from you—­yet you would pretend to ‘adopt’ me though you know I am your own!  Is not that hypocrisy?”

Lady Blythe for a moment tightened her lips in a line of decided temper—­then she smiled ironically.

“It is tact,” she said—­“and good manners.  Society lives by certain conventions, and we must be careful not to outrage them.  In your own interests you should be glad to learn how to live suitably without offence to others around you.”

Innocent looked at her with straight and relentless scorn.

“I have done that,” she answered—­“so far.  I shall continue to do it.  I do not want any help from you!  I would rather die than owe you anything!  Please understand this!  You say I am your daughter, and I suppose I must believe it—­but the knowledge brings me sorrow and shame.  And I must work my way out of this sorrow and shame,—­somehow!  I will do all I can to retrieve the damaged life you have given me.  I never knew my mother was alive—­and now—­I wish to forget it!  If my father lived, I would go to him—­”

“Would you indeed!” and Lady Blythe rose, shaking her elegant skirts, and preening herself like a bird preparing for flight—­ “I’m afraid you would hardly receive a parental welcome!  Fortunately for himself and for me, he is dead,—­so you are quite untrammelled by any latent notions of filial duty.  And you will never see me again after to-day!”

“No?”—­and the interrogation was put with the slightest inflection of satire—­so fine as to be scarcely perceptible—­but Lady Blythe caught it, and flushed angrily.

“Of course not!” she said—­“Do you think you, in your position of a mere farmer’s girl, are likely to meet me in the greater world?  You, without even a name—­”

“Would you have given me a name?” interposed the girl, calmly.