Her mother had insisted that the "supply" should be asked to come up for the afternoon, that their guest might not know of their servantless condition. Virginia was at first opposed to the idea, but after reflection she agreed. Mr. Gaunt must not think them too utterly in his power. She felt like the besieged citizens who threw loaves of bread over the walls, in order that the besiegers might suppose that they were living in plenty. Moreover, the presence of Mrs. Brown would ensure that Pansy and Tony were not neglected, but had tea at the proper time, Virgie being otherwise engaged.

Thus it was that Gaunt, on his arrival, was admitted by a responsible-looking middle-aged woman in a very clean ap.r.o.n, and shown into a room which, though tiny, was a bower of luxury.

Mrs. Mynors, beautifully gowned, rose from the downy Chesterfield to greet him. She thought he looked less vindictive, less ironical than he had seemed at their last meeting. After all, perhaps she had been fancying things!

"Well," he said, "so our young lady is considering the subject, as I foresaw she would do. She is her mother's own daughter."

Mrs. Mynors smothered her resentment at this extraordinary address. She was conscious of a hatred which was difficult to keep within bounds, but her own panic, when she knew that there was a doubt of his coming, had shown her something of what would be her frame of mind if Virginia declined to marry.

"Virginia," said she, "is by no means my own daughter. I am a wretched woman of business, whereas her head is as clear as a man's. She wishes to have all that you propose to do for us embodied in a marriage settlement."

"Ha!" said Gaunt, as if delighted. The mother could hardly have made a more misleading statement. "Sharp young woman, indeed! Well, I respect her for that. There's no reason that I know of, for her to trust me.

Where is she, by the bye? Has she entrusted the preliminaries to you?"

"No, she has not. She is acting quite independently in this matter,"

snapped Mrs. Mynors. "She is not quite of age, but I have always left her a great liberty of action. In fact, we have been more like sisters than mother and daughter." She dabbed her eyes daintily, and her voice was fraught with pathos.

"How charming!" said Gaunt gravely. "Did she remember having met me at the Wallace Collection?"

"Oh, yes, indeed she did! She remembered very well!" cried Mrs. Mynors, and her laugh was nearly as unpleasant as his own.

"Capital," was his comment. "All should go well then. Is love at first sight the proper cue, eh? Advise me. What do you think?"

For a moment the mask dropped. The real woman looked at him through the eyes of the elder Virginia. "I think you are a devil," she said distinctly.

He seemed much amused. "Well, perhaps you are not so far out this time.

I told you that you were no fool. I thought you could be trusted to prepare the way for these difficult negotiations. Now may I see the lady of my heart?"

As he spoke, the door opened softly and Virginia walked in.

She wore her deceptive air of extreme elegance, and her prettiest frock. It was a costume grossly unsuited to the tiny villa, and she had hitherto worn it only in London. Any man beholding her might have been pardoned for supposing her to be a luxury-loving idler, a girl who thought of little else but appearances.

Gaunt stood up. She approached him with a mingling of shyness and welcome; her manner seemed to trust him completely--to say that she knew herself safe in his hands. It might have made appeal to the veriest ruffian, had not his eye been jaundiced by his knowledge of her mother, and of their penniless circ.u.mstances. Her virginal modesty was to him merely consummate hypocrisy.

"Well," he said, "so I hear that you are not going to commit yourself until I stand committed too? Is that so?"

She laughed a little breathlessly. His non-smiling, dark face and big, rather hulking person were formidable, and she was conscious of fear.

"You said it was a business transaction, and business transactions ought to be business-like, ought they not?" she asked. She was speaking playfully, while her eyes sought his, as wanting to understand, to obtain some key to his curious behaviour. "It was kind of you to come, nevertheless," she added, with a hesitation born of his lack of response.

"I am a non-social, boorish kind of person," he said abruptly, after a pause, during which she withdrew herself and sat down. "I suppose I ought to begin with some kind of apology for such a blunt offer, hey?

But I am told that young ladies nowadays like something out of the way; and you could fill in the details for yourself, I expect. You saw me admiring you that day in the Gallery, did you not?"

Again the eyes, so like, so unlike, her mother's, were lifted to those of the man who remembered each look and smile of twenty years back as if it had been yesterday.

"I noticed something special--something I could not interpret--in your manner," was her gentle reply. "I told my friend that I thought you must imagine that you knew me. I was interested when mamma said that it was my likeness to her which drew your attention. I was glad to have it so well explained."

He leaned forward, intent upon her face and her down-bent gaze. "Well,"

he said, in a voice which thrilled her curiously, "perhaps you think that my suggestion is not quite so surprising, after all?"

Virginia made no reply. Her mother clenched her hands in rage, made some small movement, enough to attract his attention, and caught a ray of what was undoubtedly malice directed at her from under his heavy lids.

"Well," he went on, turning again to the girl, his tone subdued and almost gentle, "what do you say?"

She wavered--her colour came. Innocent and ignorant of life though she was, she yet felt the immensity of the step she was taking; but, strangely enough, the fact that the man gave her no help counted in his favour with her. His manner suggested some tremendous feeling, out of sight. His aloofness was like a fine and delicate consideration. The mocking quality in his address, so obvious to her mother, pa.s.sed her by.

"Do you really think," she asked, her gaze still upon the ground, "that I am an adequate exchange for all the things you promise to do for--_them_?"

"Tell me now--enumerate--what have I promised to do for _them_?"

She lifted her eyes then. He was not looking at her, but brushing the sleeve of his coat where a crumb had fallen upon it. This avoidance gave her courage. "To educate Tony," said her voice, so fatally like her mother's in its cadenced sweetness, "to allow mother three hundred pounds a year, and to let Pansy have the best advice and treatment for her lameness."

"I admit all that, right enough. Anything more?"

"To settle five thousand pounds on me----"

He looked in triumph at Mrs. Mynors. "Admirable!" he said, with a sarcasm which penetrated to the girl's intelligence with a shock. She broke off, startled.

"All right," he told her soothingly. "I agree to that too. Anything more?"

"Our solicitor, Mr. Askew, said there was another thing that I ought to ask," she replied, quite tranquilly. "It is that you should make a will in my favour, so that if anything happened to you, we should not be left dest.i.tute."

He once more let his mocking glance lash Mrs. Mynors. "I appreciate my future wife's business capacity," said he, "but I warn you that I am horribly healthy. Except for the accident which lamed me, I have not had a day's illness in my life. I fear I shan't oblige you by dying just yet."

Virgie grew pink. "Oh, I beg your pardon! That must have sounded very cold-blooded," she apologised. "But you said it was a business offer, did you not?"

He smiled for the first time. Dropping his voice to a low persuasiveness: "Did you quite believe that?" he asked.

Thus challenged, the truth in Virginia spoke. "No," she told him; "I thought it too extraordinary to be true."

"Besides," he persisted, still in that wooing undertone, "with a man who had seen you, it could hardly be, eh?"

Virgie held her breath. Something was here which was utterly beyond her. She was half terrified, half fascinated.

"Do you remember the statue on the landing at Hertford House?" he asked. The blood rushed to her cheeks now in headlong tide. _He_ knew what brought it; her mother misinterpreted.

"When you had gone, I went and read the inscription," he pursued. "I told myself how true it was. Do you remember it? _Voici ton maitre?_"

He sat and watched the memory, the pang that rent her. The sight of it seemed to give him real pleasure. He could trace the regret, the quiver of feeling, and he could say to himself: "She loves young Rosenberg, but she will marry me for my money. She deserves the punishment which I am going to inflict."

"So, you see, I am a wise man; I know when I am beaten," he went on smoothly. "I acknowledged my master when I found him."

The struggle in Virginia was keen. She was telling herself that this was Mr. Gaunt's highly unusual way of confessing himself attracted. If it were true that he already felt this strong inclination, then she must satisfy him; the marriage ought to be a success, since he had the desire to love, and she the will to please, to serve, to cherish. Yet there was an undernote, like the boom of the far-away storm in the voice of a calm sea. This alarmed her, for she did not understand it.

To steady herself and hide her embarra.s.sment she rose and went to the tea-table, at which she seated herself, pouring the tea and dispensing it with the noticeable grace which characterised her least important actions.

She noticed that her mother was shedding tears, and the sight caused her to make a great effort and launch into small talk--of the late heat, and the rain, and the climate of Wayhurst. Small support did she receive from either of her companions; and by the time that Gaunt had eaten a slice of cake and drunk two cups of tea, his patience seemed suddenly to give out.

"Come, then," he asked suddenly, "have we arranged matters, subject to your finding the business side of the transaction in good order?"