“She is indeed, mother. Although I have many a good and true lieutenant thoroughly in touch with my ideas in our volunteer force, there is not one that can come up to Lady Flora. She will be a mountain of help to me, and I know I can trust her. I could trust her even with _our_ secret.” “Oh! never divulge _that_, Gloria.” “Not I, mother! It was only an allegory, to give you an idea of my high opinion of her. But, till the right time comes, our secret will be with me as silent as the grave.” They talk on, busy with their plans, hopeful of the future, and what it is to bring, do these two women. The afternoon flits by, the chirp of the sparrows grows dull, the sun is sinking aslant the roofs of the opposite houses, the evening is creeping on apace. Gloria de Lara rises from her seat, and throws her arms around Speranza’s neck. “I must go now, mother,” she says gently. “I wish I could stay, but I have an engagement. Good-night, my precious mother. Kiss Gloria before she goes.” “God bless you, my child,” answers the mother, as she presses the girl to her heart; “God bless you, and keep you prospering in your work, my valiant young Hector D’Estrange.” And the girl passes out from her mother’s presence into the silent square. She is echoing Speranza’s prayer, and is pulling herself together, for out of that mother’s presence she has her part to play. She is no longer Gloria de Lara, but popular, successful Hector D’Estrange. * * * * * There is yet another scene at which we must glance before this chapter closes. Let us enter Lord Westray’s house in Grosvenor Square. He is in the drawing-room pacing up and down, his face dark with anger and passion. A footman enters, bearing on a massive silver salver a tiny scented bijou note. He hands the missive respectfully to his lordship, who takes it impatiently. “The bearer is to wait for an answer, my lord.” “Answer be d——d!” begins Lord Westray; but suddenly recollecting himself, he continues, “Very well, Walter, come up when I ring.” “Yes, my lord.” The servant retires. His face is very grave, but it relaxes into a leer as he closes the door. “’Spec’s the old un’s rather tired of her by now. Gives her another week before they sez good-morning to each other,” he soliloquises to himself as he goes downstairs. As he does so, Lord Westray opens the note. It is from Lady Manderton, and runs as follows:— “DEAREST OLD POTSIE,—Have got a ripping little supper on to-night. Man’s away, and we will have some fun. Have asked several kindred spirits. Shall look for you at ten. “Your ever-devoted ‘DODO.’” “I can’t go,” he mutters. “Hang the woman, I’m sick of her! She was all very well a little while ago, but nothing will satisfy me but Speranza now. I _will_ have her or nobody; and if I don’t have her, I will have what’s next best, revenge.”