plosion. One barrel for the detested wife
of the good Frederic, one for the sister she has befriended--to that
sister's cost.

"True," says Lady Monkton, with an uncivil little upward glance at
Barbara. For once--because it suits her--she has accepted her sister's
argument, and determined to take no heed of her scarcely veiled insult.
"She helps you, no doubt. Is useful with the children, I hope. Moneyless
girls should remember that they are born into the world to work, not to
idle."

"I am afraid she is not as much help to me as you evidently think
necessary," says Barbara smiling, but not pleasantly. "She is very
seldom at home; in the summer at all events." It is abominable to her to
think that these hateful old people should regard Joyce, her pretty
Joyce, as a mere servant, a sisterly maid-of-all-work.

"And if not with you--where then?" asks Lady Monkton, indifferently, and
as if more with a desire to keep up the dying conversation than from any
acute thirst for knowledge.

"She stays a good deal with Lady Baltimore," says Barbara, feeling
weary, and rather disgusted.

"Ah! indeed! Sort of companion--a governess, I suppose?"

A long pause. Mrs. Monkton's dark eyes grow dangerously bright, and a
quick color springs into her cheeks.

"No!" begins she, in a low but indignant tone, and then suppresses
herself. She can't, she mustn't quarrel with Freddy's people! "My sister
is neither companion nor governess to Lady Baltimore," says she icily.
"She is only her friend."

"Friend?" repeats the old lady, as if not quite understanding.

"A great friend," repeats Barbara calmly. Lady Monkton's astonishment is
even more insulting than her first question. But Barbara has made up her
mind to bear all things.

"There are friends and friends," puts in Miss L'Estrange with her most
offensive air.

A very embarrassing silence falls on this, Barbara would say nothing
more, an inborn sense of dignity forbidding her. But this does not
prevent a very natural desire on her part to look at her husband, not so
much to claim his support as to know if he has heard.

One glance assures her that he has. A pause in the conversation with his
father has enabled him to hear everything. Barbara has just time to note
that his brow is black and his lips ominously compressed before she sees
him advance toward his mother.

"You seem to, be very singularly ignorant of my wife's status in
society----" he is beginning is a rather terrib