"I always thought I could understand mother running away from that home," said Annette. "I would have run away too, if I could. I did once as a small child, but I only got as far as Bethnal Green." "Then your mother died when you were quite small?" "Yes; I can just remember being with her in lodgings after she left father--for she had to leave him. But he got all her money from her first--at least, all she had it in her power to give up. I can remember how she used to sob at night when she thought I was asleep. And then, my next remembrance is the aunts and the house in London. They meant to be kind. They were kind. I was their niece, after all. But they were Nevills. It seems it is a very noble, mysterious thing to be a Nevill. Now, I was only half a Nevill, and only half English, and dark like father. I take after father. And of course I am not quite a lady. They felt that." "You look like one," said Mrs. Stoddart. "Do I? I think that is only because I hold myself well and know how to put on my clothes." "My dear Annette! As if those two facts could deceive me for a moment!" "But I am not one, all the same," said Annette. "Gentle-people, I don't mean only the aunts but--_others_, don't regard me as their equal, or--or treat me so." She was silent for a moment, and her lip quivered. Then she went on quietly-- "The minute I was twenty-one and independent I came into a hundred a year, and I left the aunts. I made them a sort of little speech on my birthday. I can see them now, all three staring at me. And I thanked them for their kindness, especially Aunt Cathie, and told them my mind was quite made up to go and live with father and become a professional singer. I had meant to do it since I was twelve." "Did they mind much?"