"Who was your mother ?" she inquired, and her very tone was an insult, not to the man who sat there so much as to the memory of poor Antoinette de Maligny.

He flushed to the temples, then paled again.
"I'll not name her to your ladyship," said he at, last, in a cold, imperious voice.
"I'm glad ye've so much decency," she countered.
"You mistake, I think," said he.

"'Tis respect for my mother that inspires me." And his green eyes flashed upon the painted hag.

She rose up a very fury.
"What are you saying ?" she shrilled.

"D'ye hear the filthy fellow, Rotherby?
He'll not name the wanton in my presence out of respect for her." "For shame, madam! You are speaking of his mother," cried Hortensia, hot with indignation.
"Pshaw! 'Tis all an impudent lie--a pack of lies!" cried Rotherby.