“I mean what I have said, Vivi,” answers Lady Manderton in a quiet, sad voice. “Vivi, I can’t tell you how terribly I feel my past wasted life. But it was not all my fault. I was brought up to nothing better, and probably should never have realised it, if Hector D’Estrange had not been born. Ah, Vivi! Gloria’s life has opened my eyes. I see now that if woman had fair play, women in the position of you and I, Vivi, would never throw away and waste our lives as we have done. But, thank God, there is a chance of remedying it. At any rate, I’ll do my best. For Gloria de Lara’s noble cause I would die willingly a thousand times.” She has taken her friend’s hand as she speaks. “Good-bye, Vivi,” she says gently. But Vivi has risen and thrown her arms round Lady Manderton’s neck. “Don’t, don’t, Dodo! You musn’t go! There are going to be terrible doings; I can see that plainly. Oh, Dodo! please don’t go.” There is just a slight curl of contempt upon the lips of Lady Manderton’s handsome mouth as she kisses the weak, timid woman, whom all these years she has been contented to call friend. Then she gently undoes the tightly clasped hands of Vivi Trevor from around her neck, and presses her firmly but kindly back into her seat. “I have no fear, Vivi. There, now, don’t cry; you will hear of me soon, dear—God grant better employed than I have been. There now, think of what I’ve said. Good-bye.” The next moment she is gone, and Vivi Trevor is left alone. For a time she sits like one in a dream, then she rises and walks to the window. The crowd is still surging to and fro. All traffic is rendered impossible save on foot. Mounted policemen and military patrol the street, interfering as little as possible with the people, who, save for the rougher element already mentioned, are orderly enough, albeit excited and angry. “What will happen?” mutters Vivi to herself. “What a strange sight! Never realised before what a number of people London contains, and what a strange-looking lot, too! Didn’t think there were such people in existence.” There is a knock at her boudoir door as she stands thus soliloquising to herself. “Come in,” she answers. It is Marie, the French maid, and she is the bearer of a note. “A letter for madame,” she says. “Marie, what a fearful crowd!” exclaims her mistress. “What will happen? Have you ever seen anything like it before?” “Mais jamais, jamais de ma vie, madame,” answers the Frenchwoman shuddering. “C’est terrible.” “Marie, you can bring me my coffee and bread-and-butter now,” continues Vivi, as she turns the note over in her hand and looks at it curiously. It is from Mr. Trevor. “Madame will have to take _café noir_ this morning,” remarks the maid gloomily. “_Café noir?_ You know I hate it, Marie.” “Tant pis, madame,” replies the woman, with a shrug of the shoulders. “But no milkman has called, and there is no milk in the house.” “But we shall starve, Marie!” exclaims her mistress.