ion to go by train to Mentone,
and come back in the evening. He did not like it--no more did she--for
she was perfectly unaccustomed to travelling alone, but there was a
deep sense of sacred duty upon her, only strengthened by her
unwillingness to realise how much she owed to Mrs. Houghton.

She telegraphed that she was coming, and found her friend more touched
than she chose to allow at the fact of her visit, declaring that she
must have wonderful power over Alwyn Egremont, if she knew how to use
it; indeed, the whole tone was of what Alice felt flattery, intended to
turn away anything more serious. Poor woman, she was as careful of
doing no injury to her young friend's reputation as Mr. Egremont could
have desired. Alice had come resolved that she should have one good
meal, but she would not hear of eating anywhere in public where either
could be recognised, and the food was brought to a private room in the
hotel. To her lodgings she still would not take Alice, nor would she
give her sister's address. Except for a genuine shower of tears when
Alice insisted on kissing her there seemed no ground gained.

But Alice went again on her husband's next visit to Mentone. He was,
to a certain degree, interested in her endeavours, and really wished
the poor woman to be under the charge of her relations, instead of
dying a miserable lonely death among strangers.

This time Alice had to seek her friend in the dreary quatrieme of the
tall house with the dirty stone stairs. It was a doleful empty room,
where, with a mannish-looking dressing-gown and a torn lace scarf tied
hood-fashion over her scanty hair, Mrs. Houghton sat over a pan of
charcoal oppressive to Alice's English lungs.

'Come again!' she cried. 'Well, I really shall begin to think that
angels and ministers of grace exist off the stage! You pretty thing!
Let me look at you. Where did you get that delicious little bonnet?'

'Why, it is perfectly plain!'

'So it is! 'Tis only the face that is in it. Now if some folks put
this on--sister Anne, for example, what dowdies they would be. Poor
old Anne, you must know she had a turn for finery, only she never knew
how to gratify it. To see the contortions of her crinolines was the
delight of all the grammar school. It was a regular comedy for them to
see her get into our pew edgeways, and once unconsciously she carried
off a gentleman's hat on her train.'

So she went on talking, coughing at intervals, and