“I confess I looked forward to you with a good deal of animosity,” he said. “It was quite natural,” she said simply. “A stepmother is not of one's own choosing, as a rule.” “She's usually resented,” said he. “But I shall not be a stepmother,” she said quickly. Her eyes were serious for an instant, then filled with a luminous smile. “I shall be Yvonne to you, and you Frederic to me. Let it be a good beginning.” “You are splendid,” he cried. “It's not going to be at all bad.” “I am sure you will like me,” she said composedly. Brood joined them at the fireside. “My dear, Mrs Desmond will show you over the house when you are ready. You will be interested in seeing the old place. Later on I shall take you up to my secret hiding-place, as they say in books. Ranjab will have the rooms in order by this evening. Where is your daughter, Mrs Desmond?” “She is at work on the catalogue, Mr Brood, in the jade room. In your last letter you instructed her to finish that----” “But this is a holiday, Mrs Desmond,” said he, frowning. “Jones, will you ask Miss Lydia to join us for tea at half-past four?” “You will adore Lydia,” said Frederic to Mrs Brood. Apparently she did not hear him, for she gave no sign. She was looking about the room with eyes that seemed to take in everything. For the moment her interest appeared to be centred on the inanimate, to the complete exclusion of all other objects. Frederic had the odd notion that she was appraising her new home with the most calculating of minds. Even as he watched her he was struck by the subtle change that came into her dark eyes. It lingered for the briefest moment, but the impression he got was lasting. There was something like dread in the far-away look that settled for a few seconds and then lifted. She caught him looking at her, and smiled once more, but nervously. Then her glance went swiftly to the face of James Brood, who was listening to something that Mrs Desmond was saying. It rested there for a short but intense scrutiny, and the smile began to die. “I am sure I shall be very happy in this dear old house,” she said quietly. “Your own mother must have loved it, Frederic.” James Brood started. Unnoticed by the others, his fingers tightened on the gloves he carried in his hand. “I never knew my mother,” said the young man. “She died when I was a baby.” “But of course this was her home, was it not?” “I don't know,” said Frederic uncomfortably. “I suppose so. I--I came here a few years ago, and----” “But even though you never knew her, there must still be something here that--that--how shall I say it? I mean, you must feel that she and you were here together years and years ago. One may never have seen his mother, yet he can always feel her. There is something--shall I say spiritual, in----” Her husband broke in upon these unwelcome reflections. His voice was curiously harsh. “Mrs Desmond is waiting, Yvonne.” She drew herself up.