e were
not for her. She could never understand them.

Mrs. Pettifer abandoned her remonstrances and was for dropping the
subject altogether. But Dick was obstinate.

"You don't know Mrs. Ballantyne, Aunt Margaret. You are unjust to her
because you don't know her. I want you to," he said boldly.

"What!" cried Mrs. Pettifer. "You actually--Oh!" Indignation robbed her
of words. She gasped.

"Yes, I do," continued Dick calmly. "I want you to come one night and
dine at Little Beeding. We'll persuade Mrs. Ballantyne to come too."

It was a bold move, and even in his eyes it had its risks for Stella. To
bring Mrs. Pettifer and her together was, so it seemed to him, to mix
earth with delicate flame. But he had great faith in Stella Ballantyne.
Let them but meet and the earth might melt--who could tell? At the worst
his aunt would bristle, and there were his father and himself to see that
the bristles did not prick.

"Yes, come and dine."

Mrs. Pettifer had got over her amazement at her nephew's audacity.
Curiosity had taken its place--curiosity and fear. She must see this
woman for herself.

"Yes," she answered after a pause. "I will come. I'll bring Robert too."

"Good. We'll fix up a date and write to you. Goodbye."

Dick went back to Little Beeding and asked for his father. The old
gentleman added to his other foibles that of a collector. It was the
only taste he had which was really productive, for he owned a collection
of miniatures, gathered together throughout his life, which would have
realised a fortune if it had been sold at Christie's. He kept it arranged
in cabinets in the library and Dick found him bending over one of the
drawers and rearranging his treasures.

"I have seen Aunt Margaret," he said. "She will meet Stella here
at dinner."

"That will be splendid," cried the old man with enthusiasm.

"Perhaps," replied his son; and the next morning the Pettifers received
their invitation.

Mrs. Pettifer accepted it at once. She had not been idle since Dick had
left her. Before he had come she had merely looked upon the crusade as
one of Harold Hazlewood's stupendous follies. But after he had gone she
was genuinely horrified. She saw Dick speaking with the set dogged look
and the hard eyes which once or twice she had seen before. He had always
got his way, she remembered, on those occasions. She drove round to her
friends and made inquiries. At each house her terrors were confirmed. It
was Dick now w