re were few to whom she would have cared to intrust
the defence of so esoteric a doctrine. And it was precisely at this
point that Westall, discarding his unspoken principles, had chosen to
descend from the heights of privacy, and stand hawking his convictions
at the street-corner!

It was Una Van Sideren who, on this occasion, unconsciously focussed
upon herself Mrs. Westall's wandering resentment. In the first place,
the girl had no business to be there. It was "horrid"--Mrs. Westall
found herself slipping back into the old feminine vocabulary--simply
"horrid" to think of a young girl's being allowed to listen to such
talk. The fact that Una smoked cigarettes and sipped an occasional
cocktail did not in the least tarnish a certain radiant innocency which
made her appear the victim, rather than the accomplice, of her parents'
vulgarities. Julia Westall felt in a hot helpless way that something
ought to be done--that some one ought to speak to the girl's mother. And
just then Una glided up.

"Oh, Mrs. Westall, how beautiful it was!" Una fixed her with large
limpid eyes. "You believe it all, I suppose?" she asked with seraphic
gravity.

"All--what, my dear child?"

The girl shone on her. "About the higher life--the freer expansion of
the individual--the law of fidelity to one's self," she glibly recited.

Mrs. Westall, to her own wonder, blushed a deep and burning blush.

"My dear Una," she said, "you don't in the least understand what it's
all about!"

Miss Van Sideren stared, with a slowly answering blush. "Don't YOU,
then?" she murmured.

Mrs. Westall laughed. "Not always--or altogether! But I should like some
tea, please."

Una led her to the corner where innocent beverages were dispensed. As
Julia received her cup she scrutinized the girl more carefully. It was
not such a girlish face, after all--definite lines were forming under
the rosy haze of youth. She reflected that Una must be six-and-twenty,
and wondered why she had not married. A nice stock of ideas she would
have as her dower! If THEY were to be a part of the modern girl's
trousseau--

Mrs. Westall caught herself up with a start. It was as though some one
else had been speaking--a stranger who had borrowed her own voice: she
felt herself the dupe of some fantastic mental ventriloquism. Concluding
suddenly that the room was stifling and Una's tea too sweet, she set
down her cup, and looked about for Westall: to meet his eyes had long
been her