"Five," was the reply-"so she says in the letter. The two youngest are twins."

For the fraction of a second something flickered across the face of Robert Vyner and was gone.

"Trimblett's second marriage was rather fortunate for them," he said, in a matter-of-fact voice.

He restrained his feelings until his father had gone, and then, with a gasp of relief, put his head on the table and gave way to them.

Convulsive tremours a.s.sailed him, and hilarious sobs escaped at intervals from his tortured frame. e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns of "Joan!" and "Poor girl!" showed that he was not entirely bereft of proper feeling.

His head was still between his arms upon the table and his body still shaking, when the door opened and Ba.s.sett entered the room and stood gazing at him in a state of mild alarm. He stood for a minute diagnosing the case, and then, putting down a handful of papers, crossed softly to the mantel-piece and filled a tumbler with water. He came back and touched the junior partner respectfully on the elbow.

"Will you try and drink some of this, sir?" he said, soothingly.

The startled Robert threw up his arm. There was a crash of gla.s.s, and Ba.s.sett, with his legs apart and the water streaming down his face, stood regarding him with owlish consternation. His idea that the junior partner was suffering from a species of fit was confirmed by the latter suddenly s.n.a.t.c.hing his hat from its peg and darting wildly from the room.

CHAPTER XXI

MRS. WILLETT sat in her small and over-furnished living-room in a state of open-eyed amazement. Only five minutes before she had left the room to look for a pair of shoes whose easiness was their sole reason for survival, and as a last hope had looked under Cecilia's bed, and discovered the parcels. Three parcels all done up in brown paper and ready for the post, addressed in Cecilia's handwriting to:-

Mrs. P. Truefitt,

Findlater's Private Hotel,

Finsbury Circus, London.

She smoothed her cap-strings down with trembling hands and tried to think. The autumn evening was closing in, but she made no attempt to obtain a light. Her mind was becoming active, and the shadows aided thought. At ten o'clock her daughter, returning from Tranquil Vale, was surprised to find her still sitting in the dark.

"Why, haven't you had any supper?" she inquired, lighting the gas.

"I didn't want any," said her mother, blinking at die sudden light.

Miss Willett turned and pulled down the blinds. Then she came back, and, standing behind her mother's chair, placed a hand upon her shoulder.

"It-it will be lonely for you when I've gone, mother," she said, smoothing the old lady's lace collar.

"Gone?" repeated Mrs. Willett. "Gone? Why, has that woman consented to go at last?"

Miss Willett shrank back. "No," she said, trembling, "but-"

"You can't marry till she does," said Mrs. Willett, gripping the arms of her chair. "Not with my consent, at any rate. Remember that. I'm not going to give way; she must."

Miss Willett said "Yes, mother," in a dutiful voice, and then, avoiding her gaze, took a few biscuits from the sideboard.

"There's a difference between strength of mind and obstinacy," continued Mrs. Willett. "It's obstinacy with her-sheer obstinacy; and I am not going to bow down to it-there's no reason why I should."

Miss Willett said "No, mother."

"If other people like to bow down to her," said Mrs. Willett, smoothing her dress over her knees, "that's their look-out. But she won't get me doing it."

She went up to bed and lay awake half the night, and, rising late next morning in consequence, took advantage of her daughter's absence to peer under the bed. The parcels had disappeared. She went downstairs, with her faded but alert old eyes watching Cecilia's every movement.

"When does Mr. Truefitt begin his holidays?" she inquired, at last.

Miss Willett, who had been glancing restlessly at the clock, started violently.

"To-to-to-day," she gasped.

Mrs. Willett said "Oh!"

"I-I was going out with him at eleven-for a little walk," said her daughter, nervously. "Just a stroll."

Mrs. Willett nodded. "Do you good," she said, slowly. "What are you going to wear?"

Her daughter, still trembling, looked at her in surprise. "This," she said, touching her plain brown dress.

Mrs. Willett's voice began to tremble. "It's-it's rather plain," she said. "I like my daughter to be nicely dressed, especially when she is going out with her future husband. Go upstairs and put on your light green."

Miss Willett, paler than ever, gave a hasty and calculating glance at the clock and disappeared.

"And your new hat," Mrs. Willett called after her.

She looked at the clock too, and then, almost as excited as her daughter, began to move restlessly about the room. Her hands shook, and going up to the gla.s.s over the mantel-piece she removed her spectacles and dabbed indignantly at her eyes. By the time Cecilia returned she was sitting in her favourite chair, a picture of placid and indifferent old age.

"That's better," she said, with an approving nod; "much better."

She rose, and going up to her daughter rearranged her dress a little.

"You look very nice, dear," she paid, with a little cough. "Mr. Truefitt ought to be proud of you. Good-by."

Her daughter kissed her, and then, having got as far as the door, came back and kissed her again. She made a second attempt to depart, and then, conscience proving too much for her, uttered a stifled sob and came back to her mother.

"Oh, I can't," she wailed; "I can't."

"You'll be late," said her mother, pushing her away. "Good-by."

"I can't," sobbed Miss Willett; "I can't do it. I'm-I'm deceiving--"

"Yes, yes," said the old lady, hastily; "tell me another time. Good-by."

She half led and half thrust her daughter to the door.

"But," said the conscience-stricken Cecilia, "you don't under-"

"A walk will do you good," said her mother; "and don't cry; try and look your best."