“A solicitor’s?” asked Ada, catching at the phrase. “Yes. Naturally. Sam shall be made to pay to the uttermost farthing.” Her idea of legal obligations were, perhaps, not vaguer than other people’s. “Not a solicitor’s,” said Mrs. Grandage in despair. “At least, my dear, not yet. Your father’s.” “Yes. My father made me marry Sam. He brought Sam home and threw him at me. I will go to my father. Of course, in any case, I can’t stay here.” Mrs. Grandage made a last rally for wordly-wisdom. “Couldn’t you bring yourself to see your husband first?” she asked. “See him!” said Ada heroically. “I will never see him again as long as I live.” The visitor buttoned her glove. After all, if Ada chose to make a fool of herself it was no business of hers, and she had tried her best, if a resolutely non-committal attempt can be a best. She kissed Ada with real sympathy. “My dear,” she said, “I’d give a great deal to undo this.” And by “this” she did not mean the peccadillo of Sam Branstone, but the pruriency of Miss Entwistle. She was an experienced woman, and angry with herself for having listened to the temptress and for aiding and abetting her. When Mrs. Grandage referred in after years to “that woman,” it was understood that she was thinking of Miss Entwistle. Ada saw her to the door, and went straight to the kitchen. “Kate,” she said to her cook, “Mr. Branstone has disgraced himself, he’s been unfaithful. I am going to my father’s. Please tell him that I know everything and that I shall not return.” She had no reticence. “Very well, mum,” said the Capable cook. The result was that when Sam went into the drawing-room that night, he found Anne Branstone sitting there, darning his socks, and perhaps it was because she was happy that she did not look a day older than when he saw her last; perhaps charring suited her; or perhaps living for an idea had kept her young. The idea was that, some day, Sam would need her. It wasn’t a miracle: there was nothing more wonderful about it than the fact that Anne was a very good friend of the cook, Kate Earwalker: but Sam stood gaping helplessly. In his own house, at his age, and after all these years he stood before his mother, the intruder, like a schoolboy who knows himself at fault. She lacked nothing of the old ascendancy. “Well,” she said, “you’re nobbut happy when you’ve got folks talking of you. But you don’t look thriving on it, neither.” “Mother,” he gasped, “what’s this?” “It’s you that will tell me that,” said Anne. “Where’s Ada?” “Gone to her father’s, and none coming back, she says. Says you’re unfaithful and told Kate she knows everything. What is it, Sam? What’s everything?” “Who brought you here?” “Kate did,” said Anne calmly. “Why, Sam, did you think I’ve lived with nothing better than what George Chappie and the papers told me of you? I’d a fancy for the truth, and it’s not a thing to get from men. Kate’s been a spy, like.” “Has she!” he cried.