n of woman born is
bound to hate her."

"Yes," said Jeff.

Lydia walked away, expecting, as she went, to be called back and
resolving that no inherent power in the voice of aged hatefulness should
force her. But Madame Beattie, having placed her, had forgotten all
about her. She rose, and brushed the ashes from her velvet curves.

"Come," she was saying to Jeffrey, "walk along with me."

He obediently picked up his hat.

"I sha'n't go home with you," said he, "if that's what you mean."

She took his arm and convoyed him down the steps, leaning wearily. She
had long ago ceased to exercise happy control over useful muscles. They
even creaked in her ears and did strange things when she made requests
of them.

"You understand," said Jeffrey, when they were pursuing a slow way along
the street, he with a chafed sense of ridiculous captivity. "I sha'n't
go into the house. I won't even go to the door."

"Stuff!" said the lady. "You needn't tell me you don't want to see
Esther."

Jeff didn't tell her that. He didn't tell her anything. He stolidly
guided her along.

"There isn't a man born that wouldn't want to see Esther if he'd seen
her once," said Madame Beattie.

But this he neither combated nor confirmed, and at the corner nearest
Esther's house he stopped, lifted the hand from his arm and placed it in
a stiff rigour at her waist. He then took off his hat, prepared to stand
while she went on. And Madame Beattie laughed.

"You're a brute," said she pleasantly, "a dear, sweet brute. Well,
you'll come to it. I shall tell Esther you love her so much you hate
her, and she'll send out spies after you. Good-bye. If you don't come,
I'll come again."

Jeffrey made no answer. He watched her retreating figure until it turned
in at the gate, and then he wheeled abruptly and went back. An instinct
of flight was on him. Here in the open street he longed for walls, only
perhaps because he knew how well everybody wished him and their kindness
he could not meet.

Madame Beattie found Esther at the door, waiting. She was an excited
Esther, bright-eyed, short of breath.

"Where have you been?" she demanded.

Madame Beattie took off her hat and stabbed the pin through it. Her
toupee, deranged by the act, perceptibly slid, but though she knew it by
the feel, that eccentricity did not, in the company of a mere niece,
trouble her at all. She sank into a chair and laid her hat on the
neighbouring stand.

"Where have you bee