“Do you know,” he said, “I sometimes think you and dad have been most awfully kind to me.” Edith’s quivering lips smiled, and her eyes shone as they had done ten years ago through happy tears as she stood to welcome Horace’s little son. “Oh, Leslie, Leslie!” she murmured. He was not a demonstrative young man, so he kicked at a footstool, and gave rather a foolish laugh. “Well, it’ll all be different now,” he said. “Anastasia is most awfully keen on my being nice to you and dad. She slanged me fearfully for not living at home--pitched into me right and left.” “Did she?” said Edith thoughtfully. “I wonder why?” “Oh, she’s so awfully clever and generous, you know.” The boy went on: “She said she was sure I’d been misunderstanding you all along, and that the least I could do was to make it up to you now.” Edith suddenly rose to her feet, then she sat down again, but her hands trembled, and there was a look of surprise in her eyes. “Have you,” she asked, “a picture of her to show me, Leslie?” The boy laughed shamefacedly. “I have her miniature,” he said; he drew out a little velvet case and tossed it with a pretence of indifference into Edith’s lap. She held it for a moment as if she dreaded what might meet her eye, and then, opening it quickly, she gazed at the exquisite familiar face. “Oh, Leslie,” she cried, “it _is_ Helen of Troy!” The boy was delighted. “Well, she’s the most beautiful woman in the world to me,” he said. “I’m glad you like it!” His step-mother sat staring as if spellbound at the little velvet case; the boy took it from her unresisting hands. “If you feel like this about her, Edith,” he said, “will you say something to my father for me--something, I mean, about her being everything she ought to be, you know, and it not mattering her being a little older than me--and really twenty-five is not very old, is it?” “I am forty,” said Edith irrelevantly. Leslie looked up compassionately. “Well,” he said reassuringly, “you aren’t really old yet, you know, Edith.” “No, I’m not really old yet,” agreed his step-mother. Helen of Troy was forty-two. A long silence followed. The boy began to fidget: he thought he would go and choose some flowers for Anastasia. He looked hesitatingly at Edith. “Promise you’ll do your best for me?” he asked, leaning over her. Edith raised her eves to his; they were strangely sad and tender. “Yes, Leslie,” she said. “I promise you that I will do my best for you.” He kissed her and went out of the room. IX Anastasia was dressed to go out in the Park. It was an exquisite day of early spring. Winter had lingered longer than usual and the green world had been for some time pining and cheerless, an unfilled canvas waiting for its artist--the sun. The park was a shimmering sea of verdant new-born foliage and young spring flowers. Crocuses and daffodils and hyacinths made summer in the midst of London.