“That dreadful business!” said Mrs. Fane-Herbert. “Why can’t your father take a rest, I wonder?” “He likes it, mother.” “Yes, dear, I’m afraid he does. It seems odd--looking back. Times change. Things take a grip on one as one gets old.” “Not only when you get old, mother.” “No?... Oh, Margaret, darling, are you happy? I do so want you to be happy. If you let anything spoil your life it will be as if mine were spoiled a----” She dared not say, “a second time”; but she went on quaveringly, determined to say now what she had in her heart lest afterwards she had not the courage to say it. “I’m not very strong, you know. I may not be able to do all I should wish for you.” “But, mother, you were strong enough in refusing to follow father from place to place when he came here. You put your foot down then, didn’t you? And you won.” “Ah, yes. But that’s like choosing furniture, or moving from place to place, or any of the small things. I can win because your father yields. He doesn’t really mind. He is very kind about such things. But on _matters of essential principle_”--how often and often had she heard that ugly phrase, spoken as if by a dictatorial Chairman to a subservient Board?--“on matters of essential principle I don’t oppose very firmly, not now. It only makes trouble, and does no good in the end.... He always makes me feel that perhaps I’m wrong, after all. He’s a very clever man, you know, dear--your father; clever, and strong. He knows more than I do of the world.” “Dear mother!” “So, Margaret,” Mrs. Fane-Herbert went on, “you must fight your own battles. And be strong. And whatever I say afterwards--for I’m not often like this ... now--remember what I think.... And that I do love you.... And that compromise with truth is no good--ever. Once beaten, always beaten.” She rustled into a chair, her white fingers clasped on her lap. “Fear is--oh, dreadful! like a foot in the door. You can never shut it out. You never seem to be--to be quite alone again.” Then, with an expression of appeal and warning in her eyes, she added: “That’s all I can say--I think that is all I can say.” There was more finality in her tone than was warranted by the closing of a conversation. When the door had shut softly on its latch and Margaret stood alone, she realized that her mother had spoken to her as she was not likely to speak again. With a sensation of sadness creeping over her she went out into the garden--its cool air, its pale sunshine. As she passed the window of the room in which Ordith and her father were discussing business she thought she heard her own name--“Margaret.” Why were they speaking of her? Perhaps her imagination had cheated her. Chance anyway!