She had resolved to take the matter out of her daughter's hands. As she stood at the bedroom door watching Lydia's sweet, troubled face, there arose within her the mother instinct to fight for her young. It was not unlikely that James Brood could be moved by Lydia's pleading, in spite of his declaration that Frederic should never marry her, but the mother recognised the falseness of a position gained by such means. Over Lydia's head would hang the perpetual reminder that he had submitted out of consideration for her, and not through fairness or justice to Frederic; all the rest of her life she would be made to feel that he tolerated Frederic for her sake. The girl would never know a moment in which she could be free from that ugly sense of obligation. God willing, Frederic would be her daughter's husband. Lydia might spare him the blow that James Brood could deal, but all of her life would be spent in contemplation of that one bitter hour in which she went on her knees to beg for mercy. The mother saw all this with a foresightedness that stripped the situation of every vestige of romance. Lydia might rejoice at the outset, but there would surely come a time of heartache for her. It would come with the full realisation that James Brood's pity was hard to bear. Fearing that she might be too late, she walked so rapidly that she was quite out of breath when she entered the house. Mr Riggs and Mr Dawes were putting on their coats in the hall preparatory to their short morning constitutional. They greeted her profusely, and with one accord proceeded to divest themselves of the coats, announcing in one voice their intention to remain for a good, old-fashioned chat. “It's dear of you,” she said hurriedly, “but I must see Mr Brood at once. Why not come over to my apartment this afternoon for a cup of tea and----” Mrs Brood's voice interrupted her. “What do you want, Mrs Desmond?” came from the landing above. The visitor looked up with a start, not so much of surprise as uneasiness. There was something sharp, unfriendly, in the low, level tones. Yvonne, fully dressed--a most unusual circumstance at that hour of the day--was leaning over the banister-rail. “I came to see Mr Brood on a very important--” “He is occupied. Won't I do as well?” “It is really quite serious, Mrs Brood. I am afraid it would be of no avail to--to take it up with you.” “Have you been sent here by someone else?” demanded Mrs Brood. “I have not seen Frederic,” fell from the other's lips before she thought. “I dare say you haven't,” said the other with ominous clearness. “He has been here since seven this morning, waiting for a chance to speak to his father in private.” “Heaven help me! I--I am too------” “Unless he spent the night in your apartment, I fancy you haven't seen him,” went on Yvonne languidly. She was descending the stairs slowly, almost lazily as she uttered the remark. “They are together now?” gasped Mrs Desmond.