“Why, to me, of course!” replied Winnie. “He knows my name and address. If you see him before I do, say I authorise him to do anything he thinks right. We are willing to--that is, he need not be hindered by questions of expense.” Winnie turned to Mrs. Burmester with the basket, which she had taken from Kent's hand. The mother thanked her, almost monosyllabically. She was too dull for emotions of any kind. Kent watched her with interest, for Clytie had often spoken of her, hinting at her own puzzle. There was a lull in Jack's ravings as Winifred and Kent stood over the bed looking at him. The expression of sullen ferocity had gone from his face, which now seemed refined and gentle. He smiled at Winifred, not recognising her, murmured something incoherent about arithmetic. His mind had wandered back to his earlier school-days. He had been fond of a teacher there, his mother explained. Her name was Miss Jones. She wished he was fond of anybody now. He was a sore trial to her. The floodgates of dull speech were opened and a slow stream of joyless anecdote poured forth--a jeremiad of Jack's iniquities. Winnie stopped her gently. “We must not think of that now, Mrs. Burmester,” she said. “We have to get him round again; and then we will see whether we can't make a good boy of him for you.” “Ah! You won't do that. He is too much like his father.” They stayed a little longer, talking. Then they went, as Winifred had to be back among her own family responsibilities. “By the way,” said Kent as they were walking homewards, “this must be Treherne's parish--in fact, I am sure of it. Has it not struck you?” “No, it never occurred to me.” “Well, he ought to know. I'll send him a line. He knows all about this sort of thing.” He walked with her as far as the door of her own house. There she gave him the key of Clytie's secretaire. Mrs. Gurkins kept the room key. He left her and turned homewards, striding along rather fast, eager to execute Clytie's commission. He was filled with a foolish pleasure at her impulsive telegram; touched also at Winifred's implicit obedience and confidence. “She's a queen among women!” The silly phrase passed through his mind and he caught himself repeating it with his lips, half aloud. “Bosh!” he added with some impatience. And he stopped to look in at a shop-window to divert his mind. It was a boot-shop. He ran his eye mechanically over the rows of commonplace, cheap boots, and then it fell upon a little pair of tan shoes, with broad silk laces. Before he realised how his mind was working, a picture rose before him of Clytie wearing a similar pair during the summer trip abroad. He remembered bending down one day when a knot had slipped and retying it for her. “I am becoming a positive ass!” he said to himself, with an angry jerk away from the window. Then he redoubled his pace, as if in defiance, but the silly phrase rang in his ears: “She's a queen among women!”