le to her daughter's
ears--for some account she felt she must give to somebody.

"Mother," said Barbara suddenly, "Eustace has been ill. He's out
of danger now, and going on all right." Then, looking hard at the
bewildered lady, she added: "Mrs. Noel is nursing him."

The past tense in which illness had been mentioned, checking at the
first moment any rush of panic in Lady Valleys, left her confused by the
situation conjured up in Barbara's last words. Instead of feeding
that part of man which loves a scandal, she was being fed, always
an unenviable sensation. A woman did not nurse a man under such
circumstances without being everything to him, in the world's eyes. Her
daughter went on:

"I took her to him. It seemed the only thing to do--since it's all
through fretting for her. Nobody knows, of course, except the doctor,
and--Stacey."

"Heavens!" muttered Lady Valleys.

"It has saved him."

The mother instinct in Lady Valleys took sudden fright. "Are you telling
me the truth, Babs? Is he really out of danger? How wrong of you not to
let me know before?"

But Barbara did not flinch; and her mother relapsed into rumination.

"Stacey is a cat!" she said suddenly. The expurgated details of the
scandal she had been retailing to her daughter had included the
usual maid. She could not find it in her to enjoy the irony of this
coincidence. Then, seeing Barbara smile, she said tartly:

"I fail to see the joke."

"Only that I thought you'd enjoy my throwing Stacey in, dear."

"What! You mean she doesn't know?"

"Not a word."

Lady Valleys smiled.

"What a little wretch you are, Babs!" Maliciously she added: "Claud
and his mother are coming over from Whitewater, with Bertie and
Lily Malvezin, you'd better go and dress;" and her eyes searched her
daughter's so shrewdly, that a flush rose to the girl's cheeks.

When she had gone, Lady Valleys rang for her maid again, and relapsed
into meditation. Her first thought was to consult her husband; her
second that secrecy was strength. Since no one knew but Barbara, no one
had better know.

Her astuteness and experience comprehended the far-reaching
probabilities of this affair. It would not do to take a single false
step. If she had no one's action to control but her own and Barbara's,
so much the less chance of a slip. Her mind was a strange medley of
thoughts and feelings, almost comic, well-nigh tragic; of worldly
prudence, and motherly instinct; of warm-blooded