‘Pray don’t mention it,’ said Sebastian, and Helena left the room. It was not a lofty room: the doorway was decidedly low, and he thought she would have to stoop to pass under it. When he was left alone, he glanced round the room. It was rather small, and was over-filled with furniture. Books were scattered about, and in the most shady corner of the room there was a vase containing a carefully preserved nosegay, such as might be bought for a trifle at any greengrocer’s shop in the neighbourhood. Everything was exquisitely neat and orderly, and in little touches here and there he fancied he recognised Helena’s hand despite the plainness, and in some respects even poorness, of the furniture. On the mantelpiece he detected two little vases of Sevres--relics of former splendour, no doubt. There was no piano, he noticed that. Perhaps because it would have filled up the room too much, or perhaps because pianos were rather expensive things to buy or hire. Yet Helena used to sing, and had a very fresh, sweet voice. How well he remembered her on that evening when he had first seen her--in her beauty and splendour, in her costly dress and sparkling necklace and rings. She had sung, ‘Since first I saw your face.’ That seemed a very long time ago! He hoped it would not be long before Helena came down again. He hoped Mrs. Spenceley would not sit with them all the evening, and he hoped they would not expect him to go away very early. Presently the door was opened, and, not Helena but her mother came in. Sebastian was as much struck with the change in her as he had been shocked with that in Helena, but in a different way. Mrs. Spenceley looked better, happier, younger, and more contented, than she had done since her husband had made his fortune eighteen years ago. And she looked so because she was so. She did not mind the narrow means, the small house, the two girls, and the constant necessity for her presence in the kitchen. All that was as the breath of life to her, and she thoroughly enjoyed it. Sebastian, with a sigh of relief, felt that here no condolences were needed, no delicate skirting of dangerous ground. He might look cheerful, and ask Mrs. Spenceley with confidence and success how she was. The nature of her answer was visibly written upon her face beforehand. ‘Well, Mr. Mallory, this is a pleasure! I could scarcely believe it when Helena said she had met you, and you were coming to see us. I said, “Eh, he’ll never come, not he!” But she said she thought you would; and she’s right, it seems.’ ‘She certainly is. I am very glad to see you looking so well, Mrs. Spenceley.’ ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Mrs. Spenceley, lightly, flinging a purple satin cap-string over her shoulder. ‘I’ve nothing to complain of, thank God! I’ve got on much better than I’d any reason to expect, and I’m thankful for it. It’s hard work sometimes, but I’ve a broad back.’ Which she certainly had. ‘That is very fortunate,’ he said, with becoming solemnity.