Florence went slowly back to the dining-room and the inventory. Ethel Dunlop had gone. She was glad of it, for she wanted to think over her strange visitor. “I don’t understand her,” she said to herself. “She is unlike any one I ever met; she fascinated and repelled me. I felt as if I wanted to kiss her, and yet the touch of her hand made me shiver.” Then she thought of Madame Celestine’s bill, and of Aunt Anne, and wished that the dress had not been bought, especially for the dinner-party; it made her feel as if she had been the unwitting cause of Mrs. Baines’s extravagance. She looked into the fire, and remembered the events of that wonderful evening, and thought of Walter away, and the bills at home that would have to be paid at Christmas. And she thought of her winter cloak that was three years old and shabby, and of the things she had longed to buy for the children. Above all she thought of the visions she had had of saving little by little, and putting her savings away in a very safe place, until she had a cosy sum with which some day to give Walter a pleasant surprise, and suggest that they should go off together for “a little spree,” as he would call it, to Paris or Switzerland. The fire burnt low, the red coals grew dull, the light from the street lamp outside seemed to come searching into the room as though it were looking for some one who was not there. She thought of Walter’s letter safe in her pocket. He himself was probably at Malta by this time—getting stronger and stronger in the sunshine. Dear Walter, how generous he was; he too was a little bit reckless sometimes. She wondered if he inherited this last quality from Aunt Anne. She thought of her children at Witley having tea, most likely with cakes and jam in abundance; and of Aunt Anne in her glory. She wondered if Mr. Wimple had turned up. “Poor Aunt Anne,” she sighed, and there was a long bill in her mind. Presently she rose, lighted a candle, drew down the blind—shutting out the glare from the street lamp—and going slowly to the writing-table in the corner, unlocked it, opened a little secret drawer, and looked in. There were three five-pound notes there—the remainder of her mother’s gift. “I wonder if Mrs. North had Madame Celestine’s bill,” she thought. “But it doesn’t matter; she said it was fifteen pounds. I can send her the amount.” A couple of hours later, while she was in the very act of putting a cheque into an envelope, a note arrived. It had been left by hand; it was scented with violets, and ran thus:— “DEAR MRS. HIBBERT, “I have ventured to pay Madame Celestine. I determined to do so while I was with you just now; but was afraid to tell you, that was why I changed the conversation so abruptly. Please don’t let the old lady know that it is my doing, for she might be angry; but she was very good to me, and I am glad to do this for her. Forgive all the strange things I said this afternoon, and don’t trouble to acknowledge this.