"And pray--what would she say?"

The question was delivered with apparent calm. But Madame's eyes were
dangerous. Doris stepped forward. Her uncle stayed her with a gesture.
He himself rose, but Madame fiercely waved him aside. Miss Wigram, in
the distance, had also moved forward--and paused.

"What would she say?" demanded Madame, again--at the sword's point.

"I--I don't know--" said young Dunstable, helplessly, still shaking.
"I--I think--she'd laugh."

And he went off again, hysterically, trying in vain to stop the fit.
Madame bit her lip. Then came a torrent of Italian--evidently a torrent
of abuse; and then she lifted a gloved hand and struck the young man
violently on the cheek.

"Take that!--you insolent--you--you barbarian! You are my _fiancé_,--my
promised husband--and you mock at me; you will encourage your stuck-up
mother to mock at me--I know you will! But I tell you--"

The speaker, however, had stopped abruptly, and instead of saying
anything more she fell back panting, her eyes on the young man. For
Herbert Dunstable had risen. At the blow, an amazing change had passed
over his weak countenance and weedy frame. He put his hand to his
forehead a moment, as though trying to collect his thoughts, and then he
turned--quietly--to look for his hat and stick.

"Where are you going, Herbert?" stammered Madame. "I--I was carried
away--I forgot myself!"