“Yes; this is Frederic, my dear,” he said, without a trace of warmth in his voice. As she withdrew her hand from Frederic's clasp James Brood extended his. “How are you, Frederic?” “Quite well, sir.” They shook hands in the most perfunctory manner. “I need not ask how you are, father,” said the son, after an instant's hesitation. “You never looked better, sir.” “Thank you. I _am_ well. Ah, Mrs Desmond! It is good to be home again with you all. My dear, permit me to introduce Mrs John Desmond. You have heard me speak of my old comrade and----” “I have heard you speak of Mr Desmond a thousand times,” said his wife. There may have been a shade of emphasis on the prefix, but it was so slight that no one remarked it save the widow of John Desmond, who had joined the group. “The best pal a man ever had,” said Mr Dawes with conviction. “Wasn't he, Riggs?” “He was,” said Mr Riggs loudly, as if expecting someone to dispute it. “Will you go to your room at once, Mrs Brood?” asked Mrs Desmond. The new mistress of the house had not offered to shake hands with her, as James Brood had done. She had moved closer to Frederic and was smiling in a rather shy, pleading way, in direct contrast to her manner of the moment before. The smile was for her stepson. She barely glanced at Mrs Desmond. “Thank you, no. I see a nice big fire, and--oh, I have been so cold!” She shivered very prettily. “Come!” cried her husband. “That's just the thing.” No one spoke as they moved toward the library. “We must try to thaw out,” he added dryly, with a faint smile on his lips. His wife laid her hand on Frederic's arm. “It is cold outside, Frederic,” she said; “very cold. I am not accustomed to the cold.” If anyone had told him beforehand that his convictions, or his prejudices, could be overthrown in the twinkling of an eye, he would have laughed him to scorn. He was prepared to dislike her. He was determined that his hand should be against her in the conflict that was bound to come. And now, in a flash, his incomprehensible heart proved treacherous. She had touched some secret spring in the bottom of it, and a strange, new emotion rushed up within him, like the flood which finds a new channel and will not be denied by mortal ingenuity. A queer, wistful note of sympathy in her voice had done the trick. Something in the touch of her fingers on his arm completed the mystery. He was conscious of a mighty surge of relief. The horizon cleared for him. “We shall do our best to keep you warm,” he said quite gaily, and was somewhat astonished at himself. They had preceded the others into the library. James Brood was divesting himself of his coat in the hall, attended by the leechlike old men. Mrs Desmond stood in the doorway, a detached figure. “You must love me, Frederic. You must be very, very fond of me, not for your father's sake, but for mine. Then we shall be great friends, not antagonists.” He was helping her with her coat.