A lonely woman--so she judged herself, plaintively--she had severed the link that bound her to her truest friend ... Her thoughts ran on tumultuously. Obeying a sudden powerful impulse, she sat down, then and there, and wrote an answer to the man, agreeing to an interview. The next morning she had a wire begging her to come to lunch at the little hotel where he stayed. Defiance of her children's opinion had spurred her into a prompt acceptance and here she was, embarked on adventure, without their faintest suspicion of it. She had advanced, as her excuse for the journey, a day's shopping at Brighton, salving her conscience with the thought of several commissions she might do. Jill, still in heavy disgrace, had breathed an inward sigh of relief, little guessing the real cause for the outing was the hated Stephen. Now, as the heavy char-a-banc churned along the dusty road, Mrs. Uniacke's mind was bent on the approaching interview. She would not acknowledge to herself how much the man meant in her life. With resolutely blind-fold eyes she called herself his "Second Mother." But, in truth, a new feeling had crept into their intercourse of late, a hint of sentiment veiled in respect, that held no trace of maternal love. He ruled her under the smiling mask of a fellow worker--a willing slave! And for this delicate, middle-aged lady an Indian Summer tide of love had dawned unrealized: a love that was none the less perilous for its comfortable cloak of friendship. For little Mrs. Uniacke, that ardent champion of Woman's Rights, was a slave herself--to convention. She knew to an inch what was "proper" and appropriate to "her dignity." He was young enough to be her son. That placed the intimacy to her simple mind on a decorous footing. She could exert a motherly "influence" over his life. The char-a-banc put her down opposite the Aquarium. She had but a few steps to walk up the Old Steine to find the Hotel facing the narrow side street and advertising "superb sea view." A German waiter greeted her, struggling into his tail-coat. "Ach yes! By hier, Madame. Mizter Zomerfield, 'e waits..." He threw open a dingy door marked "Private." For the first time Mrs. Uniacke felt a slight sense of embarrassment--the shrinking that a stranger knows on landing in an unknown country. But the next moment she stood inside a small sitting-room, neatly furnished, with a luncheon table, gay with flowers, laid for two. She was alone. As the door closed she turned to the glass and threw back her veil with a sigh of relief. In the gray light filtering through the somewhat heavily curtained window her face looked surprisingly youthful. The delicate colour in her cheeks, the bright eyes and soft hair were framed by the floating folds of chiffon; her figure, still slender, was almost girlish in the coat and skirt of navy serge that opened over a white silk blouse, with its narrow tie of mauve ribbon.