"It has been a great shock to her," said Francis, "and she has been very unhappy about it. We have agreed to say nothing to the others and to pretend that the little Fender girl is ill." Annette was immensely relieved. She had been most alarmed at the thought of what Minna would say. She wanted reassuring, and she asked her father again: "Are you angry with me?" "I? No, no, my dear. Angry! What's the use? Perhaps you'll be happier at home." "I think I will. I didn't do anything really. I only bathed without any clothes on." "It is not a usual practice with governesses." "I expect I ought never to have been a governess. I often used to feel much younger than Deedy." "There's something in that, something in that. None of you seem to be properly grown up. I don't know what will happen to you all. . . . I expect your mother will talk to you about your ingratitude and wickedness. She and I don't agree about it." They reached Fern Square. Mrs. Folyat had taken to her bed to nurse her grief, and also by way of impressing Annette with the awfulness of the thing she had done. Annette went up to her and endured an hour's tearful homily on the sinfulness of the flesh. She sat by her mother's bedside with her hands in her lap and her head bowed, and thought comically of Mrs. Fender reading "Enquire Within" and discovering from its pages how to treat wicked governesses. On the way down the dark stairs she met a man with a beard whom she did not know. "Hullo!" he said. "Who are you?" "Annette." He kissed her. "I'm Serge. They didn't tell me you were coming home. Anything wrong?" "I've lost my place." "Did you like it?" "Not much." "Then it doesn't matter." "Mother's terribly upset about it." "That doesn't matter. She's always upset. We are a queer lot, and she hasn't the ghost of a notion how to handle us. She's baffled because we're not like people out of a novelette, angels engaged in dodging the wickedness of a horrid world." Annette's own view of things was rather like that. She had always believed it to be her duty to keep herself unspotted by things temporal, though she had no idea how to set about it. Her mother had said many unjust and unfair things to her. She was feeling rather resentful and was pleased with the audacity of Serge's criticism. All her upbringing had been based on the sanctity of parental authority and the parental person, and she was fearful and fascinated by such defiance of it. "Come up to my room," said Serge, "and let's have a look at you, and you can tell me about yourself--if you want to." He took her arm and led her upstairs to the top of the house, where he had a room under a north skylight which served him as bed-room, sanctum, and studio. It was a litter of paper, boots, drawing-boards, drawings, pipes, and cigar-boxes. He put on an old dressing-gown, lit a pipe, and made Annette sit on the bed, and stood and looked at her. She felt very happy and smiled at him.