e took them both by surprise.
To Carmina's excited imagination, she glided into their presence like
a ghost. Her look and manner showed serious agitation, desperately
suppressed. In certain places, the paint and powder on her face had
cracked, and revealed the furrows and wrinkles beneath. Her hard eyes
glittered; her laboured breathing was audible.

Indifferent to all demonstrations of emotion which did not
scientifically concern him, Benjulia quietly rose and advanced towards
her. She seemed to be unconscious of his presence. He spoke--allowing
her to ignore him without troubling himself to notice her temper. "When
you are able to attend to me, I want to speak to you. Shall I wait
downstairs?" He took his hat and stick--to leave the room; looked at
Carmina as he passed her; and at once went back to his place at the
window. Her aunt's silent and sinister entrance had frightened her.
Benjulia waited, in the interests of physiology, to see how the new
nervous excitement would end.

Thus far, Mrs. Gallilee had kept one of her hands hidden behind her. She
advanced close to Carmina, and allowed her hand to be seen. It held an
open letter. She shook the letter in her niece's face.

In the position which Mrs. Gallilee now occupied, Carmina was hidden,
for the moment, from Benjulia's view. Biding his time at the window, he
looked out.

A cab, with luggage on it, had just drawn up at the house.

Was this the old nurse who had been expected to arrive at six o'clock?

The footman came out to open the cab-door. He was followed by Mr.
Gallilee, eager to help the person inside to alight. The traveller
proved to be a grey-headed woman, shabbily dressed. Mr. Gallilee
cordially shook hands with her--patted her on the shoulder--gave her his
arm--led her into the house. The cab with the luggage on it remained
at the door. The nurse had evidently not reached the end of her journey
yet.

Carmina shrank back on the sofa, when the leaves of the letter touched
her face. Mrs. Gallilee's first words were now spoken, in a whisper. The
inner fury of her anger, struggling for a vent, began to get the better
of her--she gasped for breath and speech.

"Do you know this letter?" she said.

Carmina looked at the writing. It was the letter to Ovid, which she had
placed in the post-basket that afternoon; the letter which declared that
she could no longer endure his mother's cold-blooded cruelty, and that
she only waited Teresa's arrival to jo