"Basil, Theresa's throat is sore. You shouldn't have driven her in the dog-cart on such a day. You shall have some sugared lemon, dear. Ring the bell, Basil." "Not for that, please! I haven't a sore throat. I--just happened to touch myself there--oh, really!" There was a laughing anguish in her voice. Was she to be handcuffed as well as starved? "Don't be afraid of giving trouble, dear." "Theresa always tells the truth, Mother." "Oh, of course! Very well. But she looked as if she had a sudden pain." "I'm afraid it is a habit." "That reminds me of an old lady I knew when I was young. I thought she had St. Vitus's dance, until her maid told me that she wore all her valuable jewellery on her--under her dress, and she was constantly touching herself to make sure it was all there." "What were you hiding, Theresa?" She lifted her chin to show him the pretty lines of her bare neck. "Ah, your own beauty," he added softly. "Something else," she said. "Tell me." She shook her head. "You must find out." Mrs. Morton's voice penetrated this happy murmur. "You crotchet, Theresa?" Morton had to shake the hand he held. "Theresa, Mother asks you if you crotchet." "Oh! No, I don't. That's very pretty." "It is for you." "Is it?" "Yes, a tray cloth." "Thank you. How clever of you!" "I'll teach you if you would care to learn." "I don't think I could. I've got such stiff fingers for things like that. They're good enough for typing. Basil, did I tell you about that last woman of mine?" It was during the recital of this tale that Mrs. Morton left the room. Theresa stopped and looked at the closing door. "Was I saying anything wrong?" she asked. "I am so used to talking frankly to Mr. Smith and Jack, that I forget other people may not like it. Was I?" "No, dear, but the whole thing is rather disagreeable to her." "But how?" "Well, you see----" "Is it that she doesn't like you to marry a woman who has earned her own living?" "That, of course, was rather a shock. Darling, try to understand her attitude. She has old-fashioned notions of womanhood. She thinks you should not have been allowed to do the work you did, and I own that it seems unnatural to me, too. But you are wonderful, Theresa. You are the exceptional woman who can do these things. You are unscathed." She stood up and fell into that attitude in which he had first seen her. "I am not unscathed," she said. "If you drop down into hell, even another person's hell, you come back--scorched. And I have the marks." She turned to him quiveringly. "Basil, have you ever suffered?" "I think so. My father was killed--I found him. And I--he was a great deal to me."