“Our last journey back was from Nottingham. We arrived in London at five o’clock on Christmas Eve. I was in a fever of dread. I believed that Sophie was dying. She kept swaying in the train as though she was going to drop. Her face was deadly-white, her eyes unnaturally bright, and her fingers were still busy on the frock. So absorbed had I been in Sophie’s affairs, I had made no arrangements about lodgings in town. Neither had she. But my old friend, Joe Gadgers, seeing my distress, said, ‘Old boy, leave it to me. I know a snug little place where they’ll take you in. I’m not stopping. I’m going straight through to Hastings.’ I thanked my old friend and embraced him. When we got to Euston, we got Sophie into a four-wheeled cab, and Joe Gadgers came with us to arrange the introduction. I hardly noticed where the lodgings were—somewhere in Clapham, I think. We arrived there, and a good lady took us in without hesitation. We put Sophie to bed. She was almost delirious, but still the frock was not quite finished. Joe left us, and I sat by her bedside, watching her busy fingers. I knew it was useless to protest. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked, and outside the snow was beginning to fall.” Colin Brancker stood up, and suddenly picked up the little white frock from the back of the chair. He held it in his arms reverently and tenderly. His voice was strong and resonant. He stood there, and acted the scene vividly before our eyes. “At ten minutes to seven I left the house, holding the frock in my arms. I rushed out without a hat, without a coat. I flew along the street, calling out for a cab like a madman.... At last I got one. I told the driver to drive like the furies to the address I gave him in Kensington. In the cab I stamped my feet and rocked the dress in my arms as though it were a fevered child. I don’t know how we got there. It seemed an eternity. I flung into the house, calling out, ‘Lucy! Lucy!’ I found her in the drawing-room. She was dressed in a flaming orange and silver dress, with a sparkling tiara in her hair. She was looking in a mirror and putting finishing touches to her hair. She cried out when she saw me: ‘Hullo! I thought Aunt Sophie had forgotten me. I’ve hired a frock from Roco’s.’ ‘Child,’ I said, ‘your Aunt Sophie has been working out her life’s blood for you. Here is the frock.’ She grabbed it and examined it. ‘Frock!’ she said. ‘It looks more like a nightdress. I don’t want the beastly old thing’; and she threw it across the room. I believe at that moment I could have struck the child. I was blind with fury. Fortunately, I remembered in time that she was my old friend Terry O’Bane’s daughter. I picked up the frock. ‘Ungrateful child!’ I exclaimed. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re murdering an ideal. You’re killing your aunt.’ She tossed her insolent head and actually pressed the bell for the butler to see me out. Just like a grown-up person. Dazed and baffled, I clutched