She lets the curtain fall, and returns to the fire.

"Will he dare defy me?" she whispers to herself. "Will he dare stay
away?"

There are two pictures hanging over the mantel--she looks up at them
as she asks the question. One is the sweet, patient face of a woman of
thirty; the other, the smiling face of a fair-haired, blue-eyed,
good-looking lad. It is a _very_ pleasant face; the blue eyes look
at you so brightly, so frankly; the boyish mouth is so sweet-tempered
and laughing that you smile back and fall in love with him at sight.
It is Sir Victor Catheron and his late mother.

Miss Inez Catheron is in many respects an extraordinary young
lady--Cheshire society has long ago decided that. They would have been
more convinced of it than ever, could they have seen her turn now to
Lady Catheron's portrait and appeal to it aloud in impassioned words:

"On his knees, by your dying bed, by your dying command, he vowed to
love and cherish me always--as he did then. Let him take care how he
trifles with that vow--let him take care!"

She lifts one hand (on which rubies and diamonds flash) menacingly,
then stops. Over the sweep of the storm, the rush of the rain, comes
another sound--a sound she has been listening for, longing for,
praying for--the rapid roll of carriage wheels up the drive. There can
be but one visitor to Catheron Royals to-night, at this hour and in
this storm--its master.