the plea of a message to
her father. When there, he closed the door behind him, and said:--

"I have a message to your father, it is true, Mistress Royal, but it is
only to beg him to interfere."

"Interfere?" she echoed with a nervousness that this time was
unmistakable.

"Pray be seated," he said, drawing a chair toward her as she stood by
the mantel.

"Thank you, but--I don't mind standing. What you--the business will not
take long, you said."

"As you please." And he stood facing her on the opposite side of the
great fireplace.

She heard his tones, glanced at him, and sat down. He took a chair also,
still placing himself so that he could watch her. She grew plainly more
nervous.

"Who is Mr. Hartly?" he asked, abruptly.

She looked at him in a frightened way, and the hand that she lifted to
her throat was trembling.

"He is"--she began, then she stopped; without any warning her expression
and her manner changed, for with the coming of what she had dreaded came
the strength to meet it. There was no more tremulousness of voice or
hand, and the face that looked at Stephen Archdale was the face of a
woman who met him upon equal terms; yet, as he looked at her steadily,
he was not quite sure even of that; it seemed to him that it would
require an effort on his part to keep at her level; that at least he
must stand at his full height. She sat silent, meeting his steady gaze.
There was a dignity about her that would have been haughtiness but for
her simplicity. Even her dress carried out the effect of this
simplicity; it was a white muslin, very plain, and the single pink
hollyhock that the new guest had slipped into her hair, and Elizabeth
had forgotten, gave to her attire the touch of warmth that something in
her face showed, too. It was to Stephen the calmness of flesh and blood,
not of marble, that he was looking at; a possibility of life and motion
was there, but a possibility beyond his reach. Some one might arouse
her; to him she was impassive.

"You've not finished your sentence," he said, coldly.

"Why should I? You know the rest of it."

"Nevertheless, I wish you would say it."

"Very well. Mr. Hartly is an agent of Mr. Peterborough."

"And Mr. Peterborough?"

"My solicitor."

"You mean your father's?"

"Yes, and mine, too."

"Then you have property of your own?"

"Yes. You did not know it?"

"I heard of it yesterday. Your property is no concern of mine, you
understand." She was sile