Her heart was cold. She was afraid of what would come out of that “understanding.” All night long she had lain with wide-staring eyes, thinking of the horrid thing James Brood had said to her. Far in the night she aroused her mother from a sound sleep to put the question that had been torturing her for hours. Mrs Desmond confessed that her husband had told her that Brood had never considered Frederic to be his son, and then the two lay side by side for the remainder of the night without uttering a word, and yet keenly awake. They were thinking of the hour when Brood would serve notice on the intruder! Lydia now realised that the hour was near. Frederic himself would challenge the wrath of all these bitter years, and it would fall upon his unsuspecting head with cruel, obliterating force. The girl shivered as with a racking chill. “Have it out with father,” he had said in his ignorance. He was preparing to rush headlong to his doom. To prevent that catastrophe was the single, all-absorbing thought in Lydia's mind. Her only hope lay in keeping the men apart until she could extract from Brood a promise to be merciful, and this she intended to accomplish if she had to go down on her knees and grovel before the man. “Oh, Freddy,” she cried earnestly, “why take the chance of making a bad matter worse?” Even as she uttered the words she realised how stupid, how ineffectual they were. “It can't be much worse,” he said gloomily. “I am inclined to think he'd relish a straight-out, fair, and square talk, anyhow. Moreover, I mean to take Yvonne to task for the thing she said--or implied last night. About you, I mean. She------” “Oh, I beg of you, don't!” “It was--unspeakable. I don't see what could have come over her.” “She was jealous. She admitted it, dear. If I don't mind, why should you incur------” “Do you really believe she--she loves the governor enough to be as jealous as all that?” he exclaimed, a curious gleam in his eyes--an expression she did not like. “Of course I think so!” she cried emphatically. “What a question! Have you any reason to suspect that she does not love your father?” “No--certainly not,” he said in some confusion. Then, after a moment: “Are you quite sure this headache of yours is real, Lyddy?” “What do you mean?” “Isn't it an excuse to stay away from--from Yvonne, after what happened last night? Be honest, dear.” She was silent for a long time, weighing her answer. Was it best to be honest with him? “I confess that it has something to do with it,” she admitted. Lydia could not be anything but truthful. “I thought so. It's--it's a rotten shame, Lyddy. That's why I want to talk to her. I want to reason with her. It's all so perfectly silly, this misunderstanding. You've just got to go on as you were before, Lyddy--just as if it hadn't happened. It------”