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was a parlour-maid to match such a lady. ‘That was a bad turn you had last night, and Cook and me think you had better stay in bed and have the doctor.’

‘But see how well I look, Miriam,’ said Monica, smiling. ‘I think I must have been a little bilious and air and exercise are the best things for me. I shall be in for tea. If Miss Bowen should come with her violin tell her to go over her music until I get back.—And, oh, Miriam’—no explicit stratagem was in her mind; only a deep instinct led her—‘I will put on my old georgette tea-gown to-night; the sleeve is a little ripped, so please have a look at it.’

There was no stratagem: but if anything unforeseen should happen to her, Miriam would be able to say that when last seen she had been quite herself. Nothing, she felt as she walked swiftly away, could seem more natural, more securely fastened to the ledge. Miriam, afterwards, would even remember the verbenas.

What, she thought, walking so rapidly down the station-road that the blood mounted hotly to her weary cheek and she had to pause more than once and draw breath—what if she took the 3.50 to London? She could go to a hotel, telegraph to