Lady Warren lay in the big bed. She wore a dark-purple silk quilted dressing-jacket, and her head was propped high with pillows. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing heavily. The first glance told Helen that Stephen was right in his description. There was no sign of grand character in this bedridden old woman. The lines which scored her face, like an ancient map, were all plainly traced by bad temper and egotism. Her grey hair was cut short in a thick untidy shock and her nose was suspiciously red.

Stealing across the floor, Helen sat down in the low chair by the fire. She noticed that each. coal was wrapped in white tissue paper, so that the scuttle appeared to be filled with snowballs. As she knew this transformation was a means to ensure quiet, she took the hint, and remained motionless, as though she were furniture.

Lady Warren’s breathing continued with the volume and regularity of a steam-engine. Presently Helen began to suspect that it was a special performance for her benefit.’

“She’s not really asleep,” she thought. “She’s foxing.”

The breathing went on-but nothing happened. Yet Helen was aware of the quiver of her pulse which always heralded Mr. Poke’s approach.’

Someone was watching her.

She had to turn her head round, in order to look at the bed. When she did so, Lady Warren’s lids were tightly closed. With a joyous sense of playing a new game, Helen waited for a chance to catch her unawares.

Presently, after many feints and failures, she proved too quick for Lady Warren. Looking up unexpectedly, she caught her in the act of spying. Her lids were slit across by twin black crescents of extraordinary brightness, which peered out at her.

They shut immediately, only to open again, as the in valid realized that further subterfuge was vain.

“Come here,” she said, in a faint fluttering voice.

With a memory of Mrs. Oates’ warning, Helen advanced warily. She looked a small and insignificant person—a pale girl in a blue pinafore dress, which made her fade into her background.

“Come nearer,” commanded Lady Warren.

Helen obeyed, although her eyes wandered to the objects on the bed-table. She wondered which missile the invalid might choose to hurl at her head, and stretched out her hand for the biggest medicine bottle.

“Put that down,” snarled her ladyship faintly. “That’s mine.”

“Oh, I am sorry.” Helen spoke eagerly. “I’m like that. I hate people to touch my things.”

Feeling that there was a link between them, she stood boldly by the bed, and smiled down at the invalid.

“You’re very small,” remarked Lady Warren, at last breaking her silence. “No style. Very unimpressive. I thought my grandson would have shown better taste when he chose a wife.”

As she listened, Helen realized that Simone had refused to enter the blue room, although Newton had urged her to do so.

“He showed excellent taste,” she said. “His wife is marvellous. I’m not her.”

“Then-who are you?” asked Lady Warren.

“The help. Miss Capel.”

A ripple of some strong emotion passed over the old woman’s face, leaving the black crescent eyes fixed and the lips hanging apart.

“She looks afraid,” thought Helen.