Warren’s voice.

“So you were listening for him, my dear,” she deduced. “And dressed up, like a mannequin.”

Her glance of respect was reserved for the black-andwhite satin tea-frock, which gave the impression that Simone had been imported straight from the London Restaurant the-dansant, together with the music. She also followed the conventions of fashion in such details as artificial lips and eyebrows superimposed on the original structure. Her glossy black hair was sleeked back into curls, resting on the nape of her neck, and her nails were polished vermilion.

But in spite of long slanting lines, painted over shaven arches, and a tiny bow of crimson constricting her natural mouth, she had not advanced far from the cave. Her eyes glowed with primitive fire, and her expression hinted at a passionate nature. She was either a beautiful savage, or the last word in modern civilization, demanding self-expression.

The result was, the same—a girl who would do exactly as she chose.

As she looked down, from her own superior height, at Helen’s small, erect figure, the contrast between them was sharp. The girl was hatless, and wore a shabby tweed coat, which was furred with moisture. She brought back with her the outside elements, mud on her boots, the wind in her cheeks, and glittering drops on her mop of ginger hair.

“Do you know where Mr. Rice is?” demanded Simone.

“He went out of the gate, just before me,” replied Helen, who was a born opportunist, and always managed to be present at the important entrances and exits. “And I heard him saying something about ‘wishing good-bye’.”

Simone’s face clouded at the reminder that the pupil was going home on the morrow. She turned sharply, when her husband peered over her shoulder, like an inquisitive bird. He was tall, with a jagged crest of red hair, and horn-rimmed glasses.

“The tea’s growing stewed,” he said, in a high-pitched voice. “We’re not going to wait any longer for Rice.”

“I am,” Simone totd him.

“But the tea-cake’s getting cold.”

“I adore cold muffin.”

“Well-won’t you pour out for me?” “Sorry, darling. Qne of the things my mother never taught me.”

“I see.” Newton shrugged as he turned away. “I hope the noble Rice will appreciate your sacrifice.”

Simone pretended. not to hear, as she spoke to Helen, who had also feigned deafness.

“When you see Mr. Rice, tell him we’re waiting tea for him.” I

Helen realized that the entertainment was over, or rather, that the scene had been ruthlessly cut, just when she was looking forward to reprisals from Simone.

She walked rather’ reluctantly upstairs, until she reached the first landing, where she paused, to listen, outside the blue room. It always challenged her curiosity, because of the formidable old invalid who lay within, invisible, but paragraphed, like some legendary character.

As she could hear the murmur of Miss Warren’s voice—for the stepdaughter was acting as deputy nurse—she decided to slip into her room, to put it ready for the night.

The Summit was a three-storied house, with two staircases and a semi-basement. A bathroom on each floorand no water during a drought. The family-consisting of old Lady Warren, the Professor, and Miss Warren, slept on the first floor, while the spare-rooms were on the second. The top attics housed the domestic staff-when any-and, at present, was only. occupied by the Oates couple.

Newton now counted as a visitor, for he and his wife had the big red room, on the second floor, while his old room, which connected with the bedrooms of Lady Warren and the Professor, was turned into the nurse’s sitting-room.

As Helen opened the door of Miss Warren’s room, a small-incident occurred which was fraught with future significance. The handle slipped round in her grip, so that she had to exert pressure in order to turn the knob.

“A screw’s loose,” she thought. “Directly I’ve time I’ll get the screwdriver and put it right.”

Anyone acquainted with Helen’s characteristics would know that she always manufactured leisure for an unfamiliar job, even if she had to neglect some legitimate duty. It was the infusion of novelty into her dull routine which helped to keep undimmed her passionate zest for life.

Miss Warren’s room was sombre and bare, with brown wallpaper, curtains, and cretonne. An old-gold cushion supplied the sole touch of color. It was essentially the sanctum of a student, for books overflowed from the numerous shelves and cases, while the desk was littered with papers.

Helen was rather surprised to find that the shutters were fastened already, while the small green-shaded lamp over the bureau gleamed like a cat’s eye.’

As she returned to the landing, Miss Warren came out of the blue room. Like her brother, she was tall and of a commanding figure, but there the resemblance ended. She appeared to Helen as an overbred and superior personality, with dim flickering features, and eyes the hue of rainwater.

In common with the Professor however, she seemed to resent the gaze of a stranger as an outrage on her privacy; yet, while her remote glance sent Helen, away on a very long journey, the Professor decimated her out of existence.

“You’re late, Miss Capel,” she remarked in her toneless voice.

“I’m sorry.” Helen looked anxious, as she wondered if her precious job were in peril. “I understood, from Mrs.