“Who _is_ she?” repeated his father, raising his eyebrows slightly. “She is Mrs James Brood.” “I--I beg your pardon,” stammered Frederic. “I didn't mean to put it in that way. Who was she? Where did you meet her, and--oh, I want to know all there is to tell, father. I've heard nothing. I am naturally curious.” Brood stopped him with a gesture. “She was Yvonne Lestrange before we were married, Mlle Lestrange; we met some time ago at the house of a mutual friend in Paris. I assure you her references are all that could be desired.” His tone was sarcastic. Frederic flushed. “I'm sorry I asked the questions, sir,” he said stiffly. Brood suddenly laughed, a quiet laugh that had some trace of humour and a touch of compunction in it. “I beg your pardon, Frederic. Come up to my room and smoke a cigar with me while I'm changing. I'll tell you about her. She is wonderful.” To his own surprise, and to Frederic's astonishment, he linked his arm in the young man's and started toward the hall. Afterward he was to wonder even more than he wondered then what it was that created the sudden desire to atone for the hurt look he had brought into the eyes of Matilde's son and the odd longing to touch his arm gently. CHAPTER IV Lydia met Brood and Frederic at the top of the stairs. She had received the message through Jones and was on her way to dress for tea. The master of the house greeted her most cordially. He was very fond of this lovely, gentle daughter of John Desmond. Into their association had stolen an intimate note that softened the cold reserve of the man to a marked degree. There was something brave and joyous in this girl that had always appealed to James Brood. He seldom failed to experience a sense of complete relaxation when with her; his hard eyes softened, his stern mouth took on the quiet smile of contentment. His chief joy was to chat with her over the work he was doing, and to listen to her frank, honest opinions. There was no suggestion of constraint in her manner. She was not afraid of him. That was the thing about her, perhaps, that warmed his stone-cold heart, although he hardly would have admitted it to be the case. She regarded herself as his secretary, or his amanuensis, in the strict way of speaking, but he considered her to be a friend as well, and treated her with a freedom that was not extended to others. A faint gleam of astonishment lurked in the girl's eyes as she stood before the two men. Never, in her experience, had there been such an exhibition of friendliness between father and son. A curious throb of joy rushed up from her heart and lodged in her throat. For the first time she found it difficult to respond with composure to Brood's lively comments. Tears were lying close to the surface of her eyes; tears of relief and gratitude. The buoyant expression in Frederic's told a new story. Her heart rejoiced.