“My darling, you don’t know how to speak to me, your own mother! What do you mean, dear, by _we_? You must learn to mean something else by _we_. Your father, if he had chosen, might have had--all that you see, and more. And Constance---- But we will say nothing more to-night on that subject. This is Con’s room, see, on the other side of mine. It was always my fancy, my hope, some time to have my two girls, one on each side.” Frances followed her mother to the room on the other side with great interest. It was still more luxurious than the one appropriated to herself--more comfortable, as a room which has been occupied, which shows traces of its tenant’s tastes and likings, must naturally be; and it was brighter, occupying the front of the house, while that of Frances’ looked to the side. She glanced round at all the fittings and decorations, which, to her unaccustomed eyes, were so splendid. “Poor Constance!” she said under her breath. “Why do you say poor Constance?” said Lady Markham, with something sharp and sudden in her tone. And then she, too, said regretfully, “Poor Con! You think it will be disappointing to her, this other life which she has chosen. Was it--dreary for you, my poor child?” Then there rose up in the tranquil mind of Frances a kind of tempest-blast of opposition and resentment. “It is the only life I know--it was--everything I liked best,” she cried. The first part of the sentence was very firmly, almost aggressively said. In the second, she wavered, hesitated, changed the tense--it was. She did not quite know herself what the change meant. Lady Markham looked at her with a penetrating gaze. “It was--everything you knew, my little Frances. I understand you, my dear. You will not be disloyal to the past. But to Constance, who does not know it, who knows something else---- Poor Con! I understand. But she will have to pay for her experience, like all the rest.” Frances had been profoundly agitated, but in the way of happiness. She did not feel happy now. She felt disposed to cry, not because of the relief of tears, but because she did not know how else to express the sense of contrariety, of disturbance that had got into her mind. Was it that already a wrong note had sounded between herself and this unknown mother, whom it had been a rapture to see and touch? Or was it only that she was tired? Lady Markham saw the condition into which her nerves and temper were strained. She took her back tenderly into her room. “My dear,” she said, “if you would rather not, don’t change your dress. Do just as you please to-night. I would stay and help you, or I would send Josephine, my maid, to help you; but I think you will prefer to be left alone and quiet.” “Oh yes,” cried Frances with fervour; then she added hastily, “If you do not think me disagreeable to say so.”