Lydia was dressing in her room, and the sound of her fresh, young voice, as she carolled out of sheer love of life, came to the girl before she turned into the room. One glance at the bed was sufficient. It was still wet, and the empty peroxide bottle told its own story. Jean glanced at it thoughtfully as she crossed into the dressing-room. "Whatever happened last night, Lydia?" Lydia turned at the voice. "Oh, the bed you mean," she made a little face. "Heaven knows. It occurred to me this morning that some person, out of mistaken kindness, had started to disinfect the room--it was only this morning that I recalled the little boy who was ill--and had overdone it." "They've certainly overdone it," said Jean grimly. "I wonder what poor Mrs. Cole-Mortimer will say. You haven't the slightest idea----" "Not the slightest idea," said Lydia, answering the unspoken question. "I'll see Mrs. Cole-Mortimer and get her to change your bed--there's another room you could have," suggested Jean. She went back to her own apartment, bathed and dressed leisurely. She found her father in the garden reading the _Nicoise_, under the shade of a bush, for the sun was not warm, but at that hour, blinding. "I've changed my plans," she said without preliminary. He looked up over his glasses. "I didn't know you had any," he said with heavy humour. "I intended going back to London and taking you with me," she said unexpectedly. "Back to London?" he said incredulously. "I thought you were staying on for a month." "I probably shall now," she said, pulling up a basket-chair and sitting by his side. "Give me a cigarette." "You're smoking a lot lately," he said as he handed his case to her. "I know I am." "Have your nerves gone wrong?" She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and her lips curled. "It wouldn't be remarkable if I inherited a little of your yellow streak," she said coolly, and he growled something under his breath. "No, my nerves are all right, but a cigarette helps me to think." "A yellow streak, have I?" Mr. Briggerland was annoyed. "And I've been out since five o'clock this morning----" he stopped. "Doing--what?" she asked curiously. "Never mind," he said with a lofty gesture. Thus they sat, busy with their own thoughts, for a quarter of an hour. "Jean." "Yes," she said without turning her head. "Don't you think we'd better give this up and get back to London? Lord Stoker is pretty keen on you." "I'm not pretty keen on him," she said decidedly. "He has his regimental pay and £500 a year, two estates, mortgaged, no brains and a title--what is the use of his title to me? As much use as a coat of paint! Beside which, I am essentially democratic." He chuckled, and there was another silence. "Do you think the lawyer is keen on the girl?" "Jack Glover?" Mr. Briggerland nodded.