“It’s false!” cried Mrs. Glenarm.  “You wretch!  Do you come to me with your trumped-up story?  What does Julius Delamayn mean by exposing me to this?” Her indignation at finding herself in the same room with Anne broke its way through, not the restraints only, but the common decencies of politeness.  “I’ll ring for the servants!” she said.  “I’ll have you turned out of the house.”

She tried to cross the fire-place to ring the bell.  Anne, who was standing nearest to it, stepped forward at the same moment.  Without saying a word, she motioned with her hand to the other woman to stand back.  There was a pause.  The two waited, with their eyes steadily fixed on one another—­each with her resolution laid bare to the other’s view.  In a moment more, the finer nature prevailed.  Mrs. Glenarm drew back a step in silence.

“Listen to me,” said Anne.

“Listen to you?” repeated Mrs. Glenarm.  “You have no right to be in this house.  You have no right to force yourself in here.  Leave the room!”

Anne’s patience—­so firmly and admirably preserved thus far—­began to fail her at last.

“Take care, Mrs. Glenarm!” she said, still struggling with herself.  “I am not naturally a patient woman.  Trouble has done much to tame my temper—­but endurance has its limits.  You have reached the limits of mine.  I have a claim to be heard—­and after what you have said to me, I will be heard!”

“You have no claim!  You shameless woman, you are married already.  I know the man’s name.  Arnold Brinkworth.”

“Did Geoffrey Delamayn tell you that?”

“I decline to answer a woman who speaks of Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn in that familiar way.”

Anne advanced a step nearer.

“Did Geoffrey Delamayn tell you that?” she repeated.

There was a light in her eyes, there was a ring in her voice, which showed that she was roused at last.  Mrs. Glenarm answered her, this time.

“He did tell me.”

“He lied!”

“He did not! He knew.  I believe him. I don’t believe you.”

“If he told you that I was any thing but a single woman—­if he told you that Arnold Brinkworth was married to any body but Miss Lundie of Windygates—­I say again he lied!”

“I say again—­I believe him, and not you.”

“You believe I am Arnold Brinkworth’s wife?”

“I am certain of it.”

“You tell me that to my face?”

“I tell you to your face—­you may have been Geoffrey Delamayn’s mistress; you are Arnold Brinkworth’s wife.”

At those words the long restrained anger leaped up in Anne—­all the more hotly for having been hitherto so steadily controlled.  In one breathless moment the whirlwind of her indignation swept away, not only all remembrance of the purpose which had brought her to Swanhaven, but all sense even of the unpardonable wrong which she had suffered at Geoffrey’s hands.  If he had been there, at that moment, and had offered to redeem his pledge, she would have consented to marry him, while Mrs. Glenarm s eye was on her—­no matter whether she destroyed herself in her first cool moment afterward or not.  The small sting had planted itself at last in the great nature.  The noblest woman is only a woman, after all!