The day came, when the influenza epidemic was at its height in Questerham, when Miss Bruce exclaimed in tones of scarcely suppressed indignation as Char came downstairs after the usual hasty breakfast which she had in her own room: "My dear, you're not fit to go. Really you're not; you ought to be in bed this moment. Do, do let me telephone and say you can't come today. Indeed, it isn't right. You look as though you hadn't slept all night." "I haven't, much," said Char hoarsely. "I have a cold, that's all." "Miss Vivian was coughing half the night," thrust in her maid, hovering in the hall laden with wraps. "You mustn't go!" cried Miss Bruce distractedly. "You really aren't fit, Miss." Lady Vivian appeared at the head of the stairs. "What's all this?" "Oh, Lady Vivian," cried the secretary, "do look at her! She ought to be in bed." Char said: "Nonsense!" impatiently, but she gave her mother an opportunity for seeing that her face was white and drawn, with heavily ringed eyes and feverish lips. "You've got influenza, Char." "I dare say," said Char in tones of indifference. "It would be very odd if I'd escaped, since half the office is down with it. But I can't afford to give in." "It would surely be truer economy to take a day off now than to risk a real breakdown later on," was the time-worn argument urged by Miss Bruce. Char smiled with pale decision. "Let me pass, Brucey. I really mean it." "Lady Vivian!" wailed the secretary. Joanna shrugged her shoulders. She, too, looked weary. "Be reasonable, Char." "It's of no use, mother. I shouldn't dream of giving in while there's work to be done." Miss Bruce gave a sort of groan of mingled admiration and despair at this heroic statement. Char slipped her arms into the fur coat that her maid was holding out for her. Lady Vivian stood at the top of the stairs looking at her with an air of detached consideration, and left Miss Bruce to make those hurried dispositions of foot-warmer, fur rug, and little bottles of sulphate and quinine which, the secretary resentfully felt, a more maternal woman would have taken upon herself. But Lady Vivian's omissions were not destined to provide the only one, or even the most severe, of the shocks received by Miss Bruce's sensibilities that morning. As Char extended her hand for the last of Miss Bruce's offerings, a small green bottle of highly pungent smelling salts, Lady Vivian's incisive tones came levelly from above. "You'd better stay the night at Questerham, Char. It will be very cold driving back after dark." "Oh no, mother. Besides, I don't know where I could go. I hate the hotel, and one can't inflict an influenza cold on other people." "You can go to your Hostel. Surely there's a spare bed?" The ghost of a smile flickered upon Lady Vivian's face, as though in mischievous anticipation of Char's refusal.