Left alone among the little mahogany tables of Gustard's, where the scent of cake and of orange-flower water made happy all the air, Barbara had sat for some minutes, her eyes cast down—as a child from whom a toy has been taken contemplates the ground, not knowing precisely what she is feeling. Then, paying one of the middle-aged females, she went out into the Square. There a German band was playing Delibes' Coppelia; and the murdered tune came haunting her, a very ghost of incongruity. She went straight back to Valleys House. In the room where three hours ago she had been left alone after lunch with Harbinger, her sister was seated in the window, looking decidedly upset. In fact, Agatha had just spent an awkward hour. Chancing, with little Ann, into that confectioner's where she could best obtain a particularly gummy sweet which she believed wholesome for her children, she had been engaged in purchasing a pound, when looking down, she perceived Ann standing stock-still, with her sudden little nose pointed down the shop, and her mouth opening; glancing in the direction of those frank, enquiring eyes, Agatha saw to her amazement her sister, and a man whom she recognized as Courtier. With a readiness which did her complete credit, she placed a sweet in Ann's mouth, and saying to the middle-aged female: “Then you'll send those, please. Come, Ann!” went out. Shocks never coming singly, she had no sooner reached home, than from her father she learned of the development of Miltoun's love affair. When Barbara returned, she was sitting, unfeignedly disturbed and grieved; unable to decide whether or no she ought to divulge what she herself had seen, but withal buoyed-up by that peculiar indignation of the essentially domestic woman, whose ideals have been outraged. Judging at once from the expression of her face that she must have heard the news of Miltoun, Barbara said: “Well, my dear Angel, any lecture for me?” Agatha answered coldly: “I think you were quite mad to take Mrs. Noel to him.” “The whole duty of woman,” murmured Barbara, “includes a little madness.” Agatha looked at her in silence. “I can't make you out,” she said at last; “you're not a fool!” “Only a knave.” “You may think it right to joke over the ruin of Miltoun's life,” murmured Agatha; “I don't.” Barbara's eyes grew bright; and in a hard voice she answered: “The world is not your nursery, Angel!” Agatha closed her lips very tightly, as who should imply: “Then it ought to be!” But she only answered: “I don't think you know that I saw you just now in Gustard's.” Barbara eyed her for a moment in amazement, and began to laugh. “I see,” she said; “monstrous depravity—poor old Gustard's!” And still laughing that dangerous laugh, she turned on her heel and went out.