“What compensation do they offer?” asked Edith. Mrs. Cathcart hesitated. “A thousand pounds,” she said reluctantly. “A thousand pounds!” The girl was startled, she had no idea the necklace was of that value. “That means, of course,” Mrs. Cathcart hastened to explain, “seven hundred pounds out of my pocket and three hundred pounds from the broker.” The girl smiled inwardly. “Seven hundred pounds from my pocket” meant, “if you ask for the full value you will rob me.” “And there is three hundred pounds due. I think I had better have that.” “Wait a little,” said Mrs. Cathcart, “they may recover the necklace, anyway; they want me to give a description of it. What do you think?” The girl shook her head. “I do not think I should like that,” she said quietly. “Questions might be asked, and I should not like people to know either that the necklace was mine, or that my mother had deposited it as security against her debts.” Here was the new Edith with a vengeance. Mrs. Cathcart stared at her. “Edith,” she said severely, “that sounds a little impertinent.” “I dare say it does, mother,” said the girl, “but what am I to do? What am I to say? There are the facts fairly apparent to you and to me; the necklace is stolen, and it may possibly never be recovered, and I am not going to expose either my loss or your weakness on the remote possibility of getting back an article of jewellery which probably by this time is in the melting-pot and the stones dispersed.” “You know a great deal about jewels and jewel-robbers,” said her mother with a little sneer. “Has Gilbert been enlarging your education?” “Curiously enough, he has,” said her daughter calmly; “we discuss many queer things.” “You must have very pleasant evenings,” said the elder woman dryly. She rose to go, looking at her watch. “I am sorry I cannot stay,” she said, “but I am dining with some people. I suppose you would not like to come along? It is quite an informal affair; as a matter of fact, the invitation included you.” “And Gilbert?” asked the girl. The woman smiled. “No, it did not exactly include Gilbert,” she said. “I have made it pretty clear that invitations to me are acceptable only so long as the party does not include your husband.” The girl drew herself up stiffly, and the elder woman saw a storm gathering in her eyes. “I do not quite understand you. Do you mean that you have gone round London talking unkindly about my husband?” “Of course I have,” said Mrs. Cathcart virtuously. “I do not know about having gone round London, but I have told those people who are intimate friends of mine, and who are naturally interested in my affairs.” “You have no right to speak,” said the girl angrily, “it is disgraceful of you. You have made your mistake, and you must abide by the consequence. I also have made a mistake, and I cheerfully accept my lot. If it hurts you that I am married to a man who despises me, how much more do you think it hurts me?” Mrs. Cathcart laughed.