Stephen turned with a frown to Lizzie, now recovered from her tantrums and inwardly enjoying the sport, for the servants all hated the man. He enjoyed in the kitchen circle the pseudonym of "The Cuckoo"--a flight of fancy on Cook's part, who likened the house to a Robin's nest! "Sherry, please," he ordered sharply. "There's none up, sir," the maid snapped. She would miss nothing by her manner, for Stephen rarely gave a tip. Down came Jill with a kind message. "Mother hopes you've all you want? She's feeling a little more rested. I think I shall keep her in bed a week." "I'm afraid that's impossible." Stephen sneered. "She's going to speak at a meeting to-morrow, and on Friday we're off to Leeds--for the great Demonstration." ("One back," he said to himself, as he saw the girl's mouth tighten.) "It's an odd thing," said Jill shortly, "that rest's not included in Woman's Rights." "Not until we get the Vote." Somerfield eyed with suspicion a scraggy, blackened object borne by Lizzie toward his little hostess. "Silver Grill," she explained, "cooked 'a point' by your treasure-trove. Like a bit?" She dug the fork into the charred meat and smiled. "It's best Canterbury," she added, with a reminiscence from below. "You know, we have to economize or there'd be nothing for the Cause." Stephen's temper began to slide. "Look here, Jill. Don't talk of things you're too young yet to understand." He turned the unpalatable fragments over angrily on his plate. "Potatoes?--Onions?" Her voice was sweet. "Oh, I'm _so_ sorry, Stephen. I quite forgot you couldn't eat them! But then, you see, I didn't expect you. If you'd only given us a little warning. If you'd told me, for instance, yesterday--or was it Monday you lunched with us? No. Sunday supper. How stupid I am!--I never can remember dates." Upstairs Mrs. Uniacke was lying back against the pillows and enjoying the rare luxury of a quiet rest in bed. "I hope they're getting on all right?" Her thoughts were with the pair below. "I don't know how it is that Jill seems always to upset Stephen." She knew her children resented his presence and the claim he made upon her time. But habit was too strong for her, and each day cemented the tie. She had always leaned. From nursery days she had never learnt to stand alone, and since her husband's death Stephen had slowly become a part of her life. The friendship was that rare achievement, a purely platonic affair. Perhaps, as her children grew older, strong and capable, she missed the sense of tenderness about her, the touch of baby clinging hands. With all her utterly feminine nature, she longed to comfort and to guide. And in this parasite who had crept into the heart of her home she found the two attributes needed in her barren and widowed life. She could "mother" him. He loved "fuss," with none of her children's independence. And at the same time she could lean on his young strength and masculine mind.