he oriel-window, her voice ringing out clear
and gay, though broken by bursts of irrepressible merriment.

"_Regardez, regardez donc, Maman! Ma bonne m'avait dit qu'il etait un
avorton, et que ce serait tres amusant de le voir. Elle m'a conseiller
de lui faire marcher_."

She darted back, and clapping her hands upon the bosom of her charming
frock, danced, literally danced and pirouetted around poor Dickie.

"_Moi, je ne comprenais pas ce que c'etait qu'un avorton_," she
continued rapidly. "_Mais je comprends parfaitement maintenant. C'est
un monstre, n'est-ce pas, Maman_?"

She threw back her head, her white throat convulsed by laughter.

"_Ah! mon Dieu, qu'il est drole_!" she cried.

Silence fell on the whole room, for sight and words alike were
paralysing in their grotesque cruelty. Ormiston was the first to speak.
He laid his hand somewhat roughly on his sister-in-law's shoulder.

"For God's sake, stop this, Ella," he said. "Take the girl away. Little
brute," he added, under his breath, as he went hastily across to poor
Dick.

But Lady Calmady had been beforehand with him. She swept across the
room, flinging aside the dainty, dancing figure as she passed. All the
primitive fierceness, the savage tenderness of her motherhood surged up
within her. Katherine was in the humour to kill just then, had killing
been possible. She was magnificently regardless of consequences,
regardless of conventionalities, regardless of every obligation save
that of sheltering her child. She cowered down over Richard, putting
her arms about him, knew--without question or answer--that he had heard
and understood. Then gathering him up against her, she stood upright,
facing them all, brother, sister, old and tried friends, a terrible
expression in her eyes, the boy's face pressed down upon her shoulder.
For the moment she appeared alienated from, and at war with, even
Julius, even Marie de Mirancourt. No love, however faithful, could
reach her. She was alone, unapproachable, in her immense anger and
immense sense of outrage.

"I will ask you to go," she said to her sister-in-law,--"to go and take
your daughter with you, and to enter this house no more."

Mrs. Ormiston did not reply. Even her chatter was for the moment
stilled. She pressed a handkerchief against the little dancer's
forehead, and it was stained with blood.

"Ah! she is a wicked woman!" wailed the child. "She has hurt me. She
threw me against the table. _Maman quel