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time with her busybody ways and her flattering talk. Butting in, that is what she is here for! Come on. The butler has gone on an errand for the master.”
    With a sinking heart, Christobel looked at the card. Mrs. J. Rivington Romayne. Wasn’t that the name of the woman the servants had been talking about? Romayne? The woman who had called on the telephone? The woman they had said would get her father? She gave a little shiver of dislike and hesitated. Should she go down? Did she have to?
    But of course, as no alternative offered, she was forced to go. There was, however, a hostile look in her eyes as she entered the smaller reception room to the right of the hall and stood for an instant between the draperies, looking into the dimness of the rich furnishings of the room.
    A soft movement sounded from the dimmest corner, like the rustling of silken garments, and a breath of exquisite violet perfume stirred the air. Then Mrs. Romayne stood before her, pausing just an instant under the light of a tall alabaster floor lamp that drew a mellow flood of amber about her head.
    Mrs. Romayne was exquisite. Even Christobel’s hostile eyes could not help seeing that. Lovely dark hair in rich waves close to a shapely head; large, soft, dark blue eyes shining with sympathy; small delicate lips, not too red, smiling just a little in eagerness. Barely an instant she lingered in that flood of soft light and then moved forward and took Christobel into her arms gently, with what seemed like rare tenderness, yet the girl resented it.
    â€œOh, you precious little girl,” said the older woman as she emerged from the somewhat prolonged kiss that she had pressed upon Christobel’s cheek with a fervor as if she had the nearest right. “I have longed to come to you, to hold you in my arms. To mother you! Of course I could not under the circumstances. But as soon as I knew that she was gone, I felt that now the way would be open for me to get nearer to you.”
    Christobel drew back, disturbed, and looked at her. Who was this woman who presumed to be so loving? Why should she feel this way? It seemed all wrong that she should resent her so much, yet she could not help it. She did not know just what to do. She did not want to be rude to one of her father’s friends—if she was her father’s friend.
    â€œWon’t you sit down?” she asked coldly, wishing there were more light in the room that she might see her caller clearly. There was something oppressive and almost intoxicating in the dim darkness and the exquisite perfume. She drew a deep breath, looked about for the light switch, and discovering it, turned on a flood of recessed lighting all around the edge of the ceiling that gave a more normal look to the visitor.
    â€œOh, my dear!” said Mrs. Romayne in a sweet voice. “How lovely you are! Come, let us go over here and sit down together on the couch where we can have a real heart-to-heart talk.”
    She slipped her arm around the shrinking girl and drew her over to a deep couch in a far corner where her face would again be in shadow from a tall screen that stood nearby.
    Christobel did not want to go with her, did not like that compelling arm about her, but there was something irresistible about the woman, as if beneath the sheath of delicate flesh she was made of iron. Christobel felt suddenly helpless in her grasp, and loathed herself for yielding. Yet the quiet courtesy in which her costly school had reared her somehow forced her to obey. She settled uneasily down on the edge of the couch as far away from her caller as she could get without actual rudeness.
    â€œNow. Tell me about yourself, dear,” murmured the too-sweet voice. “You can trust me absolutely with everything. You can talk as freely as if I were your very own mother, darling child! I know your young heart must just be bursting. Of course, you have your father, but a young girl always needs a woman in whom to