The telegram fell from her hands, both of which she now impressed into a complicated finger-reckoning of how old little Anne must be, if Chris were thirty-three, as he certainly was--no, thirty-one, he couldn’t be more than thirty-one, because _she_, Kate, was only forty-two ... yes, forty-two ... and she’d always acknowledged to herself that there were nine years between them; no, eleven years, if she were really forty-two; yes, but was she? Or, goodness, was she actually forty-five? Well, then, if she was forty-five--just supposing it for a minute--and had married John Clephane at twenty-one, as she knew she had, and little Anne had been born the second summer afterward, then little Anne must be nearly twenty ... why, quite twenty, wasn’t it? But then, how old would _that_ make Chris? Oh, well, he _must_ be older than he looked ... she’d always thought he was. That boyish way of his, she had sometimes fancied, was put on to make her imagine there was a greater difference of age between them than there really was--a device he was perfectly capable of making use of for ulterior purposes. And of course she’d never been that dreadful kind of woman they called a “baby-snatcher”.... But if Chris were thirty-one, and she forty-five, then how old _was_ Anne? With impatient fingers she began all over again. The maid’s voice, seeming to come from a long way off, respectfully reminded her that the chocolate would be getting cold. Mrs. Clephane roused herself, looked about the room, and exclaimed: “My looking-glass, please.” She wanted to settle that question of ages. As Aline approached with the glass there was a knock at the door. The maid went to it, and came back with her small inward smile. “Another telegram.” Another? This time Mrs. Clephane sat bolt upright. What could it be, now, but a word from him, a message at last? Oh, but she was ashamed of herself for thinking of such a thing at such a moment. Solitude had demoralized her, she supposed. And then her child was so far away, so invisible, so unknown--and Chris of a sudden had become so near and real again, though it was three whole years and one month since he had left her. And at her age--She opened the second message, trembling. Since Armistice Day her heart had not beat so hard. “New York. Dearest mother,” it ran, “I want you to come home at once. I want you to come and live with me. Your daughter Anne.” “You asked for the looking-glass, Madame,” Aline patiently reminded her. Mrs. Clephane took the proffered glass, stared into it with eyes at first unseeing, and then gradually made out the reflection of her radiant irrepressible hair, a new smile on her lips, the first streak of gray on her temples, and the first tears--oh, she couldn’t remember for how long--running down over her transfigured face. “Aline--” The maid was watching her with narrowed eyes. “The Rachel powder, please--” Suddenly she dropped the glass and the powder-puff, buried her face in her hands, and sobbed.