“I’m so glad to meet you,” she said. “I have heard so much about you.” “Indeed?” said Mrs. Hignett coldly. “And now I should like to hear a little about you.” “I’ve read all your books,” said Jane. “I think they’re wonderful.” In spite of herself, in spite of a feeling that this young woman was straying from the point, Mrs. Hignett could not check a slight influx of amiability. She was an authoress who received a good deal of incense from admirers, but she could always do with a bit more. Besides, most of the incense came by post. Living a quiet and retired life in the country, it was rarely that she got it handed to her face to face. She melted quite perceptibly. She did not cease to look like a basilisk, but she began to look like a basilisk who has had a good lunch. “My favourite,” said Jane, who for a week had been sitting daily in a chair in the drawing-room adjoining the table on which the authoress’s complete works were assembled, “is ‘The Spreading Light.’ I _do_ like ‘The Spreading Light!’” “It was written some years ago,” said Mrs. Hignett with something approaching cordiality, “and I have since revised some of the views I state in it, but I still consider it quite a good text-book.” “Of course, I can see that ‘What of the Morrow?’ is more profound,” said Jane. “But I read ‘The Spreading Light’ first, and of course that makes a difference.” “I can quite see that it would,” agreed Mrs. Hignett. “One’s first step across the threshold of a new mind, one’s first glimpse....” “Yes, it makes you feel....” “Like some watcher of the skies,” said Mrs. Hignett, “when a new planet swims into his ken, or like....” “Yes, doesn’t it!” said Jane. Eustace, who had been listening to the conversation with every muscle tense, in much the same mental attitude as that of a peaceful citizen in a Wild West Saloon who holds himself in readiness to dive under a table directly the shooting begins, began to relax. What he had shrinkingly anticipated would be the biggest thing since the Dempsey-Carpentier fight seemed to be turning into a pleasant social and literary evening not unlike what he imagined a meeting of old Girton students must be. For the first time since his mother had come into the room he indulged in the luxury of a deep breath. “But what are you doing here?” asked Mrs. Hignett, returning almost reluctantly to the main issue. Eustace perceived that he had breathed too soon. In an unobtrusive way he subsided into the bed and softly pulled the sheets over his head, following the excellent tactics of the great Duke of Wellington in his Peninsular campaign. “When in doubt,” the Duke used to say, “retire and dig yourself in.” “I’m nursing dear Eustace,” said Jane. Mrs. Hignett quivered, and cast an eye on the hump in the bedclothes which represented dear Eustace. A cold fear had come upon her. “‘Dear Eustace!’” she repeated mechanically. “We’re engaged,” said Jane. “Engaged! Eustace, is this true?”