Catherine regarded the tense, quivering little figure with chill
dislike.

"You married my brother," she replied imperturbably.

"And you have separated us! But for you, we should be happy together--he
and baby and I! But you have spoilt it all. I suppose"--a hint of the
Latin Quarter element in her asserting itself--"I suppose you think no
one good enough to marry into your precious family!"

Catherine paused on her way to the cupboard, a pile of fine linen
pillowslips in her hands.

"Yes," she said quietly. "It is I who have separated you--spoilt your
happiness, if you like. And I am glad of it. I can't expect anyone like
you to understand"--there was the familiar flavour of disparagement in
her tones--"but I am thankful that my brother has seen the wickedness of
his marriage with you, that he has repented of it, and that he is making
the only atonement possible!"

She turned and composedly laid the pile of pillowslips in their
appointed place on the shelf. A faint fragrance of dried lavender
drifted out from the dark depths of the cupboard. Diane always
afterwards associated the smell of lavender with her memories of
Catherine Vallincourt, and the sweet, clean scent of it was spoiled for
her henceforward.

"I hate you!" she exclaimed in a low voice of helpless rage. "I hate
you--and I wish to God Hugh had never had a sister!"