Lydia flinched, she knew not why. There was a sting to the words, despite the languidness with which they were uttered. Risking more than she suspected, she said: “He never considers the cost of a thing, Mrs Brood, if its beauty appeals to him.” Mrs Brood gave her a quizzical, half-puzzled look. “You have only to look about you for the proof. This one room represents a fortune.” The last was spoken hastily. “How old are you, Miss Desmond?” The question came abruptly. “I am nineteen.” “You were surprised to find me so young. Will it add to your surprise if I tell you that I am ten years older than you?” “I should have said not more than three or four years.” “I am twenty-nine--seven years older than my husband's son.” “It doesn't seem credible.” “Are you wondering why I tell you my age?” “Yes,” said Lydia bluntly. “In order that you may realise that I am ten years wiser than you, and that you may not again make the mistake of under-estimating my intelligence.” The colour faded from Lydia's face. She grew cold from head to foot. Involuntarily she moved back a pace. The next instant, to her unbounded surprise, Mrs Brood's hands were outstretched in a gesture of appeal, and a quick, wistful smile took the place of the imperious stare. “There! I am a nasty, horrid thing. Forgive me. Come! Don't be stubborn. Shake hands with me and say that you're sorry I said what I did.” It was a quaint way of putting it, and her voice was so genuinely appealing that Lydia, after a moment's hesitation, extended her hands. Mrs Brood grasped them in hers and gripped them tightly. “I think I should like to know that you are my friend, Lydia. Has it occurred to you that I am utterly without friends in this great city of yours? I have my husband, that is all. Among all these millions of people there is not one who knows that I exist. Isn't it appalling? Can you imagine such a condition? There is not one to whom I can give an honest smile. Nor am I likely to have many friends here. Indeed, I shall not lift my finger to gain them. You will know me better one day, Lydia, and you will understand. But now--to-day, to-morrow--now--I must have someone to whom I may offer my friendship and have something to hope for in return.” Lydia could hardly credit her ears. “I am sure you will have many friends, Mrs Brood,” she began, vaguely uncomfortable. “I don't want them,” cried the other sharply. “Poof! Are friends to be made in a day? No! Admirers, yes. Enemies, yes. But friends, no. I shall have no real friends here. It isn't possible. I am not like your people. I cannot become like them. I shall know people and like them, no doubt, but--poof! I shall not have them for friends.” “I can't understand why you want me for a friend,” said Lydia stiffly. “My position here is not what----” Mrs Brood had not released the girl's hands. She interrupted her now by dropping them as if they were of fire. “You don't want to be my friend?” “Yes, yes--of course----”