the mirror lie, or was it true that she was very nearly as pretty as ever? Hardly a silver thread in the beautiful ripe gold hair that had no slightest hint of red in it! The teeth still perfect within the pretty lips, barely discernible crows' feet at the corners of the brilliant, expressive eyes! Plumper she was no doubt, but to be plump prevents wrinkles. As she stood there, even in her disarray, she knew that she did not deceive herself. She was still a most attractive woman.

... And fate had sent her a chance like this! With pulses racing she crept back to her bed and curled up there, trying to decide how best to take advantage of this marvellous coincidence, this strange turn of fortune's wheel. What a good thing that she was a woman of experience, no longer a shy girl. She must not lose this chance, as silly Virginia had lost hers! No, no! She was too clever for that. How well the French wit had said: "Si la jeunesse savait! Si la vieillesse pouvait!"

In herself, the two states of youth and age were met felicitously. She was old enough to know, young enough to enjoy! If she could not now take hold on circumstance, and wrest her defeat into pure victory, then she was no better than a fool—and she had never thought herself that.

All the time she was dressing her lips would part in a smile that revealed those pretty teeth, and a dimple which still lurked in a fold of her smooth cheek. She passed her own plans in review before her mind, pondering—pondering as to how much she would have to tell Virgie. Her excitement was so great that she felt sure she would have to tell most of it. Thrills of anticipation coursed most agreeably through her being. How had she been able to bear it so far—this crushing, stifling existence in an odious little box in a horrid third-rate town? How patient she had been! What a martyrdom she had borne! For the children it was of course different. For her it had been a living burial. Now that it was over—now that she saw a shining gateway admitting her back to the world she loved so well, it seemed incredible that she could have stood it so long.

... What would Virgie say now—Virgie, who was always so mean and stingy, reproving her for gratifying even the simplest taste, expecting her to live as though she had been brought up in one of the cottages on her husband's estate? She pictured the rapture of gratitude and devotion with which the girl would realise that her mother's charm, her mother's ability to hold a man's affection for twenty years and more, was to mend the family fortunes. She faced—only to disregard it—the fact that Virginia would have some ridiculous scruples about her father's memory. She recollected very soon that, for Pansy's sake, the girl would welcome any way out—Pansy, whose lameness might be cured, if she could only have the required advice and treatment.

She sat before her glass in a dream of reminiscence.

There was a tap at the door, and her daughter entered, soft-footed, carrying a cup on a tray. "I've brought your cold beef-tea jelly, dearest, as it is such a hot day," said she, putting it down. "Would you like me to do your hair for you?"

"Oh, my chick, if you only would! I feel quite over-strained! I have had such extraordinary—such heart-searching news! I very nearly fainted when I was having my bath."

Virginia turned pale. The remembrance of Pansy's revelation concerning their "rewend" condition leapt to her mind. She had now been home three days, and her mother had said nothing of it, but seemed flush of cash. Virginia had consulted the cheque-book—nothing out of the way there. The money spent on house-keeping had been, as she expected, too large, but not out of all bounds.

Something had stolen Virginia's buoyancy. She felt an inward flinching, as though she could not bear a fresh blow. It must be the heat. She took up a silver brush, and said, as stoutly as she could:

"Well, Mums, tell me all about it. I can bear it."

Mrs. Mynors pushed aside her golden tresses, opened a small drawer, searched it, and drew out the solicitor's letter.

"Virgie, I could not tell you the very day you came home," she faltered. "It would have been brutal, but I suppose you must know."

Her daughter, taking the legal-looking documents in her suddenly cold hands, sank rather than seated herself upon a chair, for the humiliating reason that she felt unable to stand.

There was stillness for a while in the tiny room, which, like the drawing-room downstairs, was a bower of luxury. Carpet, curtains, furniture, plenishings—all were costly relics of bygone days, something to make a pillow between the dainty head of its mistress and the hard cold boards of poverty. Even as she cleaned the silver toilet articles yesterday, Virgie had noted a fresh bottle of a particularly expensive perfume affected by her mother.