"Anything for me, Ada?"

"No, miss--one for your mother."

A shadow fell across Jill's face. She longed for a letter from McTaggart, now staying with the Leasons. Then she smiled back at her brother.

"Let's hope it's not from Stephen!"

"Pity she doesn't make _him_ a soldier. He'd get the V.C.----" said the boy. At this they both laughed aloud.

Mrs. Uniacke, in the drawing-room, heard the sound and hardened her heart. With trembling fingers she tore the envelope open and hastily read the contents.

She had quarrelled with Stephen on Jill's behalf ... The simple fact in her present mood was magnified into sacrifice of her own happiness for her daughter.

A lonely woman--so she judged herself, plaintively--she had severed the link that bound her to her truest friend ... Her thoughts ran on tumultuously.

Obeying a sudden powerful impulse, she sat down, then and there, and wrote an answer to the man, agreeing to an interview.

The next morning she had a wire begging her to come to lunch at the little hotel where he stayed. Defiance of her children's opinion had spurred her into a prompt acceptance and here she was, embarked on adventure, without their faintest suspicion of it.

She had advanced, as her excuse for the journey, a day's shopping at Brighton, salving her conscience with the thought of several commissions she might do. Jill, still in heavy disgrace, had breathed an inward sigh of relief, little guessing the real cause for the outing was the hated Stephen.

Now, as the heavy char-a-banc churned along the dusty road, Mrs.

Uniacke's mind was bent on the approaching interview. She would not acknowledge to herself how much the man meant in her life. With resolutely blind-fold eyes she called herself his "Second Mother."

But, in truth, a new feeling had crept into their intercourse of late, a hint of sentiment veiled in respect, that held no trace of maternal love. He ruled her under the smiling mask of a fellow worker--a willing slave! And for this delicate, middle-aged lady an Indian Summer tide of love had dawned unrealized: a love that was none the less perilous for its comfortable cloak of friendship.

For little Mrs. Uniacke, that ardent champion of Woman's Rights, was a slave herself--to convention. She knew to an inch what was "proper"

and appropriate to "her dignity." He was young enough to be her son.

That placed the intimacy to her simple mind on a decorous footing. She could exert a motherly "influence" over his life.

The char-a-banc put her down opposite the Aquarium. She had but a few steps to walk up the Old Steine to find the Hotel facing the narrow side street and advertising "superb sea view."

A German waiter greeted her, struggling into his tail-coat.

"Ach yes! By hier, Madame. Mizter Zomerfield, 'e waits..."

He threw open a dingy door marked "Private." For the first time Mrs.

Uniacke felt a slight sense of embarra.s.sment--the shrinking that a stranger knows on landing in an unknown country.

But the next moment she stood inside a small sitting-room, neatly furnished, with a luncheon table, gay with flowers, laid for two. She was alone.

As the door closed she turned to the gla.s.s and threw back her veil with a sigh of relief.

In the gray light filtering through the somewhat heavily curtained window her face looked surprisingly youthful. The delicate colour in her cheeks, the bright eyes and soft hair were framed by the floating folds of chiffon; her figure, still slender, was almost girlish in the coat and skirt of navy serge that opened over a white silk blouse, with its narrow tie of mauve ribbon.

And, for a moment, she felt startled. What was she doing in this place? She thrust away the faint scruple, conscious of its absurdity.

Many a time had she and Stephen stayed together in hotels, engaged on their suffrage work, without the slightest self-consciousness.

Yet this was different...

Her colour heightened as she asked herself the reason why? Then she heard his step in the hall and turned quickly away from the gla.s.s.

Stephen, slim and elegant, in his grey flannels, stood before her, hand outstretched, a welcoming light in the long lashed green eyes.

"H'are you?" He held in his clasp her fingers that, despite her will, trembled slightly, and gazed down at the pretty flushed face.

"This is good of you, dear lady,"--his voice was low and sentimental.

"More than I deserve, you know."

Carefully he closed the door as she murmured something in reply and came back to her side.

"I never saw you look so well! It's just too ... nice to have you here--and I'm goin' to ask a further favour----" he gave her a beseeching glance--"Just to postpone our ... business talk--and lunch first--without a word of all that painful Cluar affair. _Do_ be kind and say you will? I promise to listen afterwards----" boyishly he added the words--"to all that you have to say to me. I know you feel awfully vexed--but just--for a little--let's forget it."

Inwardly Mrs. Uniacke felt relieved at the postponement of the lecture she had prepared.

Still--there was her "dignity." She must uphold that at any cost.

"I should prefer to discuss it first. That was my object in coming here, as I wrote in my letter, Stephen."

"Ah--don't be hard on me," he broke in quickly, seeing her waver.

"I've been through such a bad time." He gave a sigh that was genuine, aware of a new financial crisis. To quarrel with the woman before him was the last thing he desired. He owed her now a considerable sum of money, far more than he could repay. As friends this state of indebtedness could drift on indefinitely, but if it came to a real rupture? He shrank from the thought of a settlement.

Far better, he said to himself, to plunge deeper and make her his wife.

And why not? It would mean a home and a certain settled future for him. He could lead his own life as before, with a little care for "appearances." The very fact of the years between them should make her indulgent to the faults of youth.

This was at the back of his mind, as he went on in a pleading voice: "And I'm not _altogether_ to blame ... so do grant me this last favour." He glanced sideways at the table and his face brightened. In its pail of ice stood a large bottle, the neck wreathed in gold foil.

This would help!

"Well--it's a bargain?"--he smiled at her--"no real business till after lunch--it will be like old times!--And then--you shall scold me as much as you wish!"

Mrs. Uniacke gave way, conscious of the familiar charm. Stephen, inwardly amused, rang the bell and they sat down.

The meal had been ordered with special care. Few women, accustomed daily to study the tastes of their men at home before their own choice of dishes, can resist the subtle appeal of a menu, ordered by one of the opposite s.e.x, in which each item shows an unselfish effort to please the invited guest.

Mrs. Uniacke ate lobster and crisp salad (which she loved)--grouse (sternly forbidden at home on the score of extravagance) and confessed gaily to greediness when a chocolate souffle was laid before her followed up by hothouse peaches and a fragrant cup of coffee. Even her favourite "marrons glaces" graced the narrow luncheon table and the air was sweet with the scent of roses in their last glory of second bloom.

"What a banquet! My dear boy--I'm afraid you've ruined yourself for me. But I really have enjoyed it so!" (The champagne had done its work. Like all women who suffer from nerves alcohol took immediate effect, to be followed, however, by a reaction almost as quick, and lachrymose.)

Stephen knew this and decided to burn his boats without delay.

"Nothing's good enough for you!" He left his seat and handed her a cigarette with a smile.

But she laughed it away, her eyes bright.

"I never smoke--you know that, Stephen."

"Try one. I think you'd look prettier still..." he checked himself.

"Sorry--it slipped out!--I forgot you always hated compliments."