She had grown to the loveliness Peter had divined in her. Her eyes had softened, their passion held in reserve. The lines of her beauty were severe, but their severity veiled the promise of her surrender. She was radiant with a vitality serenely masked--a queen ready at the true word to come down. She looked from the card she held to Mrs. Paragon. "You are Peter's mother," she said, in the manner of one speaking to herself. "You remember him?" asked Mrs. Paragon. Miranda did not answer. "Come to my room," she said, and led the way upstairs. Her room was cheerful with firelight and simple comfort. Mrs. Paragon again wondered at finding her thus alone and able to command. Miranda drew her a chair to the fire, and, as Mrs. Paragon sat down, she put an arm about her shoulder and looked at her. "I've often wondered what you were like," she said. "You had forgotten?" "I was only a girl. Memories are not to be trusted." "You never tried to correct them?" "I have heard of you often. You did not seem to want me." "I have been looking for you," said Mrs. Paragon. "Have you found what you expected?" Mrs. Paragon put her hand upon Miranda's arm. "Indeed I have," she quietly asserted. "I think you are the girl that Peter knew." "Please," Miranda entreated. Mrs. Paragon had moved too quickly towards her secret. There was a short silence. "Tell me," said Miranda at last. "When did you begin to look for me?" "As soon as I knew that Peter needed you." "He needs me?" said Miranda quickly. "How do you know that?" "He was once very ill. He talked of you continually." "I have heard of Peter," she objected a little hardly. "I have heard of him as entirely happy. Lately, too, in Paris I met a friend of Vivette Claire." "Peter is in need of you," Mrs. Paragon insisted. She spoke as one returning to the thing which really mattered. "I wonder." Miranda looked thoughtfully at Mrs. Paragon. "You are like my memory of you," she continued. "I remember you as always quiet and wise--as one who said only what was true." "I know that Peter needs you." "Does Peter himself know?" Miranda drily asked. "I want you to come back. He will know when he sees you." "You believe, if I met him to-morrow, the years between would disappear?" Miranda suggested, smiling at her idea. "I am sure," Mrs. Paragon insisted. "It would be interesting," said Miranda. Her touch of irony was lost on Peter's mother, who saw no call for smiling. "Have you no feeling for Peter?" she seriously urged. "I do not know," Miranda answered bluntly, with a small shrug of her shoulders. "Ask yourself." "It is for Peter to ask." "This is not generous, Miranda." Miranda rose and walked to the fire. She stood for a moment looking away from Mrs. Paragon.