Mr. Bonsor looked uncertainly at Patricia, and Mr. Triggs gazed at Mr. Bonsor. He had no very high opinion of his daughter's husband. "Well, mind you don't overwork 'er," said Mr. Triggs as he rose to go. A few minutes later Patricia was deep in the absorbing subject of the life history of the potato-beetle. "Ugh!" she cried as the clock in the hall chimed five. "I hate beetles, and," she paused a moment to tuck away a stray strand of hair, "I never want to see a potato as long as I live." That evening when she reached Galvin House she went to her room, and there subjected herself to a searching examination in the looking-glass, she was forced to confess to the paleness of her face and dark marks beneath her eyes. She explained them by summer in London, coupled with the dreariness of Arthur Bonsor, M.P., and his mania for statistics. "You're human yeast, Patricia!" she murmured to her reflection; "at least you're paid two-and-a-half guineas a week to try to leaven the unleavenable, and you mustn't complain if sometimes you get a little tired. Fretting!" There was indignation in her voice. "What have you got to fret about?" With the passage of each day, however, she grew more listless and weary. She came to dread meal-times, with their irritating chatter and uninspiring array of faces that she had come almost to dislike. She was conscious of whisperings and significant looks among her fellow-boarders. She resented even Gustave's cow-like gaze of sympathetic anxiety as she declined the food he offered her. Lady Tanagra and Mr. Triggs never asked her out. Everybody seemed suddenly to have deserted her. Sometimes she would catch a glimpse of them in the Park on Sunday morning Once she saw Bowen; but he did not see her. "The daily round and common task" took on a new and sinister meaning for her. Sometimes her thoughts would travel on a few years into the future. What did it hold for her? Instinctively she shuddered at the loneliness of it all. One afternoon on her return to Galvin House, Gustave opened the door. He had evidently been on the watch. His kindly face was beaming with goodwill. "Oh, mees!" he cried. "Mees Brent is here." "Aunt Adelaide!" cried Patricia, her heart sinking. Then seeing the comical lock of indecision upon Gustave's face caused by her despairing exclamation she laughed. When she entered the lounge, it was to find Miss Brent sitting upright upon the stiffest chair in the middle of the room. Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe were seated together in the extreme corner, Mrs. Barnes and two or three others were grouped by the window. The atmosphere was tense. Something had apparently happened. Patricia learned that from the grim set of Miss Brent's mouth. "I want to talk to you, Patricia," Miss Brent announced after the customary greeting. "Yes, Aunt Adelaide," said Patricia, sinking into a chair with a sigh of resignation. "Somewhere private," said Miss Brent.