"I have come for an explanation," she said. "You are an impostor. How
dare you use my name and sing my songs?"
Anna looked at her sister in blank amazement.
"Annabel!" she exclaimed. "Why, what is the matter with you? What do
you mean?"
Annabel laughed scornfully.
"Oh, you know," she said. "Don't be a hypocrite. You are not 'Alcide.'
You have no right to call yourself 'Alcide.' You used to declare that
you hated the name. You used to beg me for hours at a time to give it
all up, never to go near the 'Ambassador's' again. And yet the moment
I am safely out of the way you are content to dress yourself in my
rags, to go and get yourself popular and admired and successful, all
on my reputation."
"Annabel! Annabel!"
Annabel stamped her foot. Her tone was hoarse with passion.
"Oh, you can act!" she cried. "You can look as innocent and shocked as
you please. I want to know who sent you those."
She pointed with shaking fingers to a great bunch of dark red
carnations, thrust carelessly into a deep china bowl, to which the
card was still attached. Anna followed her finger, and looked back
into her sister's face.
"They were sent to me by Mr. Nigel Ennison, Annabel. How on earth does
it concern you?"
Annabel laughed hardly.
"Concern me!" she repeated fiercely. "You are not content then with
stealing from me my name. You would steal from me then the only man I
ever cared a snap of the fingers about. They are not your flowers.
They are mine! They were sent to 'Alcide' not to you."
Anna rose to her feet. At last she was roused. Her cheeks were
flushed, and her eyes bright.
"Annabel," she said, "you are my sister, or I would bid you take the
flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. But behind these
things which you have said to me there must be others of which I know
nothing. You speak as one injured--as though I had been the one to
take your name--as though you had been the one to make sacrifices. In
your heart you know very well that this is absurd. It is you who took
my name, not I yours. It is I who took the burden of your misdeeds
upon my shoulders that you might become Lady Ferringhall. It is I who
am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband."
Annabel shivered a little and looked around her.
"He does not come here," she exclaimed, quickly.
"He spends hours of every day on the pavement below," Anna answered
calmly. "I have been bearing this--for your sake. Shall I send him to
Sir John?"
Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent.