like an angry tigress. "I will not put up with it, Sylvia. I warn
you. You have been thoroughly spoilt all your life. I know the
signs quite well. And you have come to think that you can do
anything you like. But that is not so any longer. I am mistress
here, and I mean to maintain my position. Any hint of rebellion
from you or anyone else I shall punish with the utmost severity.
So now you understand."

"I do indeed," said Sylvia.

She had not stirred from her chair, but sat watching her
step-mother's agitated pacing with grim attention. It was her
first acquaintance with the most violent temper she had ever
encountered in a woman, and it interested her. She was no longer
conscious of being angry herself. The whole affair had become a
sort of bitter comedy. She looked upon it with a species of
impersonal scorn.

Mrs. Ingleton was obviously lashing herself to fury. She could not
imagine why, not realizing at that stage that she was the victim of
a jealousy so fierce as to amount almost to a mania. She wondered
if her father were watching them from the terrace, and contemplated
getting up to join him, but hesitated to do so, reflecting that it
might appear like flight. At the same time she did not see why she
should remain as a target for her step-mother's invective, and she
had just decided upon departure when Bliss, the butler, opened the
door with his own peculiarly quiet flourish and announced, "Captain
Preston!"

A clean-shaven little man, with a horsey appearance about the legs