Uncle Fred had carefully rehearsed the little address which he proposed to deliver to his errant niece. Marjorie’s point-blank query gave him as good an opening as he appeared likely to get. "Your father," he began, settling down to work, "is a just man—" "Yes; I think you’re right there," agreed Marjorie. "He tries to be, anyhow; but he’s too ignorant and narrow to succeed. That was why I left home. Go on!" "Your father," reiterated Uncle Fred, who was of that brand of orator which finds it easier, when interrupted, to go right back to the beginning, "is a just man—" "Yes; I know. You said that before," said Marjorie. "_No Encores, by Request!_" added Liss. "Your father suggested that when I returned to London I should institute inquiries as to your whereabouts. He was anxious to know if you had been spared during these years, and—" "That was very kind of him," said Marjorie. "No!"—as Uncle Fred took another breath—"don’t go back to the beginning again! ’If I had been spared’—yes?" "And, if so, what your circumstances were." "Why?" "Your father said he would not like to feel that you were in actual destitution, and—" "Oh! _And?_" "I was to tell him if you were." "And if I were?" "He did not say; but he practically gave me to understand that if you would send him your assurance that you were truly and humbly repentant, and would endeavour in future, by Divine Grace, to raise yourself from your present condition"—Uncle Fred was settling comfortably down now to his pulpit manner—"he was prepared on his part, to temper justice with mercy. You would be provided for. Of course, you would never be permitted to return home. There are the children to think of—" Next moment, Uncle Fred had the surprise of his blameless and dreary existence. A small figure in a tempestuous _negligée_ whirled into his field of vision, and Liss—white-faced, stammering, passionate—stood over him. "What do you mean?" she screamed. "You silly old blear-eyed devil, what do you mean by it? What do you mean by crowding into this flat where you weren’t invited, and insulting my Marjie? How _dare_ you! Get out before we throw you out—do you hear? You psalm-singing old nanny-goat, for two pins I’d pull your rotten little beard off!" She flew to Marjorie, and threw an arm round her shoulders. "And to think that real men are dying in this war every minute—and the finest women in the world killing themselves with overwork—just to keep insects like you _alive_! Why, I—_Oh!_" She choked. Marjorie restored her small, hysterical, half-famished champion to the arm-chair. "That’s all right, Baby," she said placidly. "He means well, but he’s had the same upbringing as father—poor old man! Sit down! Sit down too, Uncle Fred!" (The dazed ambassador was groping for the door.) "I want to talk to you."