May looked away from the fire and contemplated the point of her boot, and then she looked at the point of Lady Dashwood's shoe--they were both on the fender rim side by side--May's right boot, Lady Dashwood's left shoe. "Your moral support," repeated Lady Dashwood. "Well, then you stay a week. Many, many thanks. To-night I shall sleep well." Lady Dashwood was conscious that "moral support" did not quite serve the purpose she wanted, she had not quite got hold of the right words. May's profile was absolutely in repose, but Lady Dashwood could feel that she was pondering over that expression "moral support." So Lady Dashwood was driven to repeat it once more. "Moral support," she said very firmly. "Your moral support is what I want, dear May." They had not heard the drawing-room door open, but they heard it close although it was done softly, and both ladies turned away from the fire. Gwendolen Scott had come in and was walking towards them, dressed in white and looking very self-conscious and pretty. "But you haven't told me," said Mrs. Dashwood tactfully, as if merely continuing their talk, "who that portrait represents?" "Oh, an old Warden," replied Lady Dashwood indifferently. "Moral support" or not--the compact had been made. May was pledged for the week. All was well! Lady Dashwood could look at Gwen now with an easy, even an affectionate smile. "Gwen, let me introduce you to Mrs. Jack Dashwood," she said. Gwen had expected Mrs. Dashwood to be an elderly relative of the family who would not introduce any new element into the Warden's little household. She had not for a moment anticipated _this_! It was disconcerting. Gwen was very much afraid of clever women, they moved and looked and spoke as if they had been given a key "to the situation," though what that key was and what that situation exactly was Gwen did not quite grasp. Even the way in which Mrs. Dashwood put her hand out for a scarf she had thrown on to a chair; the way she moved her feet, moved her head; the way her plain black dress and the long plain coat hung about her, her manner of looking at Gwen and accepting her as a person whom she was about to know, all this mysterious "cachet" of her personality--made Gwen uneasy. Besides this elegant woman was not exactly elderly--about twenty-eight perhaps. Gwen was very much disconcerted at this unexpected complication at the Lodgings--her life had been for the last few months since she left school in July, crowded with difficulties. "I don't think I want that man to speak," said Mrs. Dashwood, turning her head to look back at the portrait. "What a funny thing to say!" thought Gwen, about a mere portrait, and she sniggled a little. "He's got a ghost," she said aloud. "Hasn't he, Lady Dashwood?" "No," said Lady Dashwood briefly. "He hasn't got a ghost. The college has got a ghost----" "Oh, yes," said Gwen, "I mean that, of course."