s friends are altogether
different, of course."

The girl bent over her work.

"No doubt, mother," she answered, "There's Mary stamping on the floor.
I expect she has your bath ready."

An hour or so later Mrs. Phillimore departed in a hired brougham.
Her hair had been carefully arranged by a local expert who had an
establishment in the next street, her pink silk gown had come through the
ordeal of cleansing with remarkable success, and the heels on her new
evening shoes resembled more than anything else, miniature stilts. Her
face was wreathed in smiles, and she possessed the good conscience and
light heart of a woman who feels that she has made a successful toilette.
All the vague misgivings of a short while ago had vanished. She gave her
hair a final touch in the side window of the carriage as she drove off,
and quite forgot to wave her hand to Hester, who was standing at the
window to see her go. If any misgivings remained at all between the two,
they were not with her. She settled herself back amongst the cushions
with a little sigh of content. Sir Leslie was a most charming person, and
evidently not at all insensible to her charms. She was sure that she was
going to have a delightful evening.

* * * * *

Borrowdean, if he possessed no conscience, was not altogether free from
some kindred eccentricity. He was reminded sharply enough of the fact
about one o'clock the next morning, when the door of the little house on
Merton Street was suddenly opened before he could touch the bell. Framed
in a little slanting gleam of light, Hester, still wearing her plain
black gown, stood and looked at him. His careless words of explanation
died away upon his lips. The fire which flashed from her hollow eyes
seemed to wither up the very sources of speech within him. The half
lights were kind to her. He saw nothing of the hollow cheeks. The
weariness of her pose and manner had passed like magic away. She stood
there, erect as a dart, her head thrown back, a curious mixture of scorn,
of loathing, and of fear in her expression. She looked at him steadily,
and he felt his cheeks burn. He was ashamed--ashamed of himself, ashamed
of his errand.

"Your mother," he said, struggling to look away from her, "is--a little
unwell. The heat of the room--"

She swept down the steps and passed him. Before he could reach her side
she was tugging at the handle of the carriage door.

"Mother," she cried, thro