Joyce Wilberforce distressed her mother for many reasons. Not the least of these was the fact that her mother did not understand her, and Joyce did understand her mother. They sat at breakfast in their little morning-room overlooking Hyde Park, Mrs. Wilberforce and her daughter, and the elder woman was very thoughtful. “Joyce,” she said, “pay attention to what I am going to say, and try to keep your mind from wandering.” “Yes, mother,” said the girl meekly. “Do you remember that maid we discharged, Jane Briglow?” “Jane Briglow?” said the girl, “yes, I remember her very well. You didn’t like her manner or something.” “She gave herself airs,” said Mrs. Wilberforce tartly. The girl’s lips curved in a smile. Joyce and her mother were never wholly in harmony. It was not the first time they had discussed Jane Briglow in the same spirit of antagonism which marked their present conversation. “Jane was a good girl,” said Joyce quietly. “She was a little romantic, rather fond of sensational literature, but there was nothing wrong with her.” Mrs. Wilberforce sniffed. “I am glad you think so,” she said, and the girl looked up quickly. “Why do you say that, mother?” “Well,” said Mrs. Wilberforce, “doesn’t it seem strange to you that this horrible burglar person should also be called Jane?” Joyce laughed. “It is not an uncommon name,” she said. “But she is going about her work in an uncommon manner,” said her mother. “All the people she is robbing are personal friends of ours, or of dear Lord Claythorpe. I must say,” she went on with a little shiver of exasperation, “that you take your loss very well. I suppose you realize that a £50,000 necklace intended for you has disappeared?” Joyce nodded. “Purchased to deck the sacrifice,” she said ironically. “Rubbish!” snorted Mrs. Wilberforce, “sacrifice indeed! You are marrying Lord Claythorpe’s heir, and Lord Claythorpe was your uncle’s dearest friend.” “He is not my dearest friend,” said the girl grimly in a sudden fit of exasperation. “Because one’s been brought up with a person, regarding him almost as a brother, that is no reason why one should marry him. In fact to the contrary. No one has yet accused me of being weak, but I should certainly lose all my self-respect if I allowed myself to be married off in this way.” “It seems to me,” said Mrs. Wilberforce, “that for a girl who has no other prospects of marriage, you are arguing with great passion. And short-sightedness,” she added. “It isn’t a question of wanting to marry someone else,” said Joyce, after a perceptible pause, “it’s merely a question of not wanting to marry Francis.” She walked across the room and picked up a silver-framed photograph of the young man under discussion. “And I think I’m justified,” she concluded. Mrs. Wilberforce was silent.