In the middle of the room she paused and looked about her. “It feels like home,” she said, without knowing what she was saying. A flush almost as agitated as the one she remembered mounted to Landers’s forehead. She saw his confusion and pleasure, and was remotely touched by them. “You see, I’m homeless,” she explained with a faint smile. “Homeless?” “Oh, I can’t remember when I was ever anything else. I’ve been a wanderer for so many years.” “But not any more,” he smiled. The double mahogany doors were thrown open. Landers, with his stiff little bow, offered her an arm, and they passed into a dusky flock-papered dining-room which seemed to borrow most of its lighting from the sturdy silver and monumental cut-glass of the dinner-table. A bunch of violets, compact and massive, lay by her plate. Everything about Fred Landers was old-fashioned, solid and authentic. She sank into her chair with a sense of its being a place of momentary refuge. She did not mean to speak till after dinner--then she would tell him everything she thought. “How delicious they are!” she murmured, smelling the violets. In the library, after dinner, Landers settled her in his deepest armchair, moved the lamp away, pressed a glass of old Chartreuse on her, and said: “And now, what’s wrong?” The suddenness and the perspicacity of the question took her by surprise. She had imagined he would leave the preliminaries to her, or at any rate beat about the subject in a clumsy effort to get at it. But she perceived that, awkward and almost timorous as he remained in smaller ways, the mere habit of life had given him a certain self-assurance at important moments. It was she who now felt a tremor of reluctance. How could she tell him--what could she tell him? “Well, you know, I really _am_ homeless,” she began. “Or at least, in remaining where I am I’m forfeiting my last shred of self-respect. Anne has told me that her experiment has been a mistake.” “What experiment?” “Having me back.” “Is that what she calls it--an experiment?” Mrs. Clephane nodded. Fred Landers stood leaning against the mantelpiece, an unlit cigar in his hand. His face expressed perplexity and perturbation. “I don’t understand. What has happened? She seemed to adore you.” “Yes; as a visitor; a chaperon; a travelling companion.” “Well--that’s not so bad to begin with.” “No; but it has nothing on earth to do with the real relation between a mother and daughter.” “Oh, _that_--” It was her turn to flush. “You agree with Anne, then, that I’ve forfeited all right to claim it?” He seemed embarrassed. “What do you mean by claiming it?”