'No, please remain,' exclaimed Beatrice. 'Aunt, you are not against me? Mrs. Birks, you won't refuse to believe what I have told you?' The two ladies glanced at each other. In Mrs. Baxendale's look there was appeal. 'Indeed, I believe you implicitly, my dear Beatrice,' said Mrs. Birks. 'My brother is the one to decide. You are mistaken in thinking I oppose your wish. How could I?' The last words were very sweetly said. With a smile which did not pass beyond her lips, Beatrice rose from her seat and held her hand to Mr. Athel. 'Then it is understood? When Wilfrid brings his wife to you, you receive her with all kindness. I have your promise?' Mr. Athel drew himself up very straight, pressed the offered hand and said: 'It shall be as you wish.' ... Beatrice returned with Mrs. Baxendale. Her desire to be alone was respected during the rest of the day. Going to her the last thing at night, her aunt was reassured; weariness had followed upon nervous strain, and the beautiful eyes seemed longing for sleep. But in the morning appearances were not so hopeful. The night had after all been a troubled one: Beatrice declined breakfast and, having dressed with effort, lay on a sofa, her eyes closed. At noon Mrs. Baxendale came near and said gently: 'Dear, you are not going to be ill?' The sufferer stirred a little, looked in her aunt's face, rose to a sitting position. 'Ill?' She laughed in a forced way. 'O, that would never do! Ill after all? Why, that would spoil everything. Are you going out this morning?' 'Certainly not. I should only have done some idle shopping.' 'Then you shall do the shopping, and I will go with you. Yes, yes, I will go! It is the only way. Let us go where we shall see people; I wish to. I will be ready in five minutes.' 'But, Beatrice--.' 'O, don't fear my looks; you shall see if I betray myself! Quick, quick,--to Regent Street, Bond Street, where we shall gee people! I shall be ready before you.' They set forth, and Beatrice had no illness. CHAPTER XXVI MID-DAY Once more at The Firs. Wilfrid had decided to make this his abode. It was near enough to London to allow of his going backwards and forwards as often as might be necessary; his father's town house offered the means of change for Emily, and supplied him with a _pied-a-terre_ in time of session. By limiting his attendance at the House as far as decency would allow, he was able to enjoy with small interruption the quiet of his home in Surrey, and a growing certainty that the life of the present Parliament would be short encouraged him in looking forward to the day when politics would no longer exist for him.