There was something else in her feeling too--the exultation of proved power over a person not, as she guessed, easily influenced, especially by women.
"Marcella, is that you ?" It was her mother's voice.

Mrs.Boyce had come in from the garden through the drawing-room, and was standing at the inner door of the hall, trying with shortsighted eyes to distinguish her daughter among the shadows of the great bare place.

A dark day was drawing to its close, and there was little light left in the hall, except in one corner where a rainy sunset gleam struck a grim contemporary portrait of Mary Tudor, bringing out the obstinate mouth and the white hand holding a jewelled glove.
Marcella turned, and by the same gleam her mother saw her flushed and animated look.
"Any letters ?" she asked.
"No; but there are some cards.

Oh yes, there is a note," and she pounced upon an envelope she had overlooked.

"It is for you, mother--from the Court." Mrs.Boyce came up and took note and cards from her daughter's hand.
Marcella watched her with quick breath.
Her mother looked through the cards, slowly putting them down one by one without remark.
"Oh, mother! do read the note!" Marcella could not help entreating.
Mrs.Boyce drew herself together with a quick movement as though her daughter jarred upon her, and opened the note.