"Oh, I wish I was older!" cried Sally, impatiently. "I could do it, but they wouldn't let me. They'd think I couldn't. I could! Not all at once, but in a little while. If he'd hold on. Supposing he ... wants me...." Her thoughts flitted away. She had a quick picture of Gaga as a lover, of herself managing everything by keeping him at her side with cajolery and parsimoniously-yielded delights. But he might grow tired of her; and then where would she be? Sally did not trust men now; she too clearly saw that once they were no longer tantalised they were liable to become sated and uneager. She was face to face with that speculation here. It all depended upon Gaga, upon the strength of her hold upon him. Could she so play that she reaped all the advantage she needed without giving anything at all? She was desperately tempted. She so greatly craved the power which only Gaga could give her. Well, what did he want? It was not enough that she should recognise her power to excite him: she needed much more than a few odd favours. And she was afraid to do anything to force him to grant whatever he could. In any case, what could he give her? She was too observant to be deceived as to his powerlessness. She saw him as a cypher; but as one who might one day--perhaps quite soon--own the whole business. Who else was there to make him do anything with it? There was nobody. Sally knew her own strength. What she could not guess was the best means of using it to her own advantage. She arrived home to find her mother in bed, with her short grey hair scantily bedecking the pillow. At Sally's entrance, Mrs. Minto opened weary eyes, and looked at her with a sort of hatred. Sally knew the expression: it was full of suspicion and dread and solicitude, the result of Mrs. Minto's lonely evening of speculation. "Hullo, ma!" she cried, recklessly. "Here I am. And I haven't been working. And there's nothing to fuss about. And that's all about that." "Where you been?" sternly demanded Mrs. Minto. "Well," began Sally, "if you _must_ know, Madam's worse. She's ill. Think she's going to die. And I been talking to Mr. Bertram, and giving him good advice. I'm a mother to that man. What he'd do without me I can't think." "Oo, Mr. Bertram!" It was clearly a warning cry. "Mr. Bertram! Oo, Sally!" "Soppy, ma. We call him 'Gaga.' He's weak, you know. Cries over his work, like a kid. Wants somebody to give him a bit of backbone." "Confidence," suggested Mrs. Minto, intrigued by the picture. She said no more, but rolled over and stared at the dim wall until sleep crept upon her and annulled her reflections.