When Mrs. Hope departed, Barney sat down on a luxurious divan in his studio, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“I may as well have that cheque as soon as possible,” he said to himself. “It is no use delaying important matters; besides, delay might injure the scheme the mater has on her mind. What a blessing it is father asks me not to mention the cheques he gives me. Between the two you manage to rub along, Barney, my boy. Well, here goes for Wimbledon!”

The young man arrayed himself with some care, jumped into a hansom, and was driven to Sloane Square station, where, in due time, a deliberate train came along that ultimately landed him in Wimbledon.

If Barney had been a man of deep thought, or experienced in the ways of working people, or able to reason from induction, he would have arrived at the fact that there was not the slightest chance of finding Mr. Sartwell in his house at that hour of the day. It must not be supposed that Barney was an unthinking person, for, when the servant informed him that Mr. Sartwell was never at home except in the evening or early morning, Barney at once accused himself mentally of heedlessness in having to come all the way from Chelsea to Wimbledon to learn so self-evident a fact. He thus admitted to himself his own ability to have reasoned the matter out, had his mind been unobscured by the shadow of a coming cheque.

He was not quick at grasping an unexpected detail, and he stood at the door hardly knowing exactly what to do next; while the servant watched him with obvious distrust, wondering whether he came to sell something or merely to ask for a subscription; however, the fact that he was keeping a hansom waiting at the gate told in his favour, so she broke the silence by saying:

“Any message, sir?”

He ignored this question, which raised him still higher in the servant’s estimation, and ventured the perfectly accurate opinion:

“He will not be home for some hours, I suppose?”

“No, sir.”

Barney pondered for a while, and suddenly delivered himself of a resolution that did credit to his good sense.

“Then I won’t wait,” he said.

“What name shall I say, sir?” asked the maid.

“Oh, it’s of no importance. I will call again; still, here is my card. I am the son of Mr. Hope, one of the proprietors of the works.”

The maid took the card, and Mrs. Sartwell appeared in the hall, almost as if she had been listening to the words of the speaker, which, of course, she had a perfect right to do, as one generally wishes to know who calls at one’s front door.

“Did I hear you say that you were Mr. Hope?” she asked.

“I am his son, madam,” said Barney modestly, and with that politeness he had learned in Paris.

“Won’t you come in? I’m sorry my husband is not at home. Is it on account of the strike you come? I feel very anxious. Your mother called yesterday, and we had a long conversation about it.”

“Yes, the mater takes a great interest in the workingman, although I can’t say I do myself. I merely wished to have an informal chat with Mr. Sartwell on the situation, and that is why I called at the house rather than the office.”

Barney stepped into the hall and kept his hat in his hand to show he had a hansom waiting. He had no intention of staying more than a moment or two. He had thought it best to have something to tell his mother about his visit to Wimbledon, for she was a relentless cross-questioner, and if he could have a conversation to report she might take the will for the deed and give him the cheque.

The door of the drawing-room was thrown open and when the two entered they found Edna Sartwell sitting there in a deep chair, reading a book with such interest that she evidently had not heard a word of the colloquy at the door. She rose in some confusion, colouring deeply as she saw a stranger come in with her step-mother. The latter said nothing to the girl, but directed a glance at her that, speaking as plainly as words, told her to leave the room.

Barney’s first thought on seeing Edna was that she was about to escape from the room, and that this desertion must be diplomatically prevented. Barney’s great burden in life, so he often told his friends, was that the young ladies of England were in the habit of throwing themselves at his head, which remark caused Haldiman once to say that they had a quick eye for his weakest point of defence. Now here was a “stunning” girl, to use Barney’s own phrase about her, who was actually about to walk out of the room without casting a second glance at him. A young man always likes the unusual.

“Not your daughter, Mrs. Sartwell?” said Barney, in his most winning manner.

“My step-daughter,” answered the lady, coldly.

“Ah, I thought you could not have a grown-up daughter,” murmured Barney, delicately. He always found this particular kind of compliment very successful with ladies well past middle age, and in this case his confidence was not misplaced.

“Do not let me drive you away, Miss Sartwell,” he continued. “I am Barnard Hope,” he added, seeing that Mrs. Sartwell did not intend to introduce him, “and I called to see your father and talk with him regarding the strike. So, you know, it is a matter that interests us all, and I beg of you to join in the conference.”

The moment he mentioned her father and the strike, he saw he held the attention of the girl, who paused and looked at her step-mother. That perplexed lady was in a quandary. She did not wish to offend Mrs. Hope’s son, and she did not want her step-daughter to remain in the room. She hesitated, and was lost.

“Pray let me offer you a chair in your own drawingroom,” said Barney, with that gallantry which he always found irresistible, “and you, Mrs. Sartwell. Now we will have a comfortable informal chat, which I know will be of immense assistance in my talk with Mr. Sartwell, for I confess I am a little afraid of him.” Edna opened her eyes at this; she had several times heard people say they stood in awe of her father, and she never could understand why.

Mrs. Sartwell sat bolt upright and folded her hands on her lap, frowning at her step-daughter when she got the chance unseen by Barney. She did not at all like the turn events had taken, but saw no way of interfering without seeming rude to her guest.

“You see,” chirruped Barney, “the mater takes a great interest in the workingman; so do I.” He thought this noble sentiment would appeal to Edna Sartwell. “I think we all—we all—as it were—should feel a certain responsibility, don’t you know. You see what I mean, Mrs. Sartwell?”

“Certainly. It does you great credit, Mr. Hope,” replied the lady appealed to, although she uttered the phrase with some severity, as if it were an aspersion.

“Oh, not at all. I suppose it was born in me. I think it natural for all rightly brought up persons to take a deep interest in their fellow-creatures. Don’t you think so, Miss Sartwell?”

“Yes,” said Edna faintly, without looking up.

“For workmen are our fellow-creatures, you know,” cried Barney, with all the enthusiasm of a startling discovery.

“Am I my brother’s keeper?” said Mrs. Sartwell, in gloomy tones.

“Quite so, quite so,” assented Barney, who took the remark as original. “I couldn’t have stated the case better if I had thought all day about it. Now the mater imagined that perhaps Mr. Sartwell would consent to meet the men and talk it over, making perhaps some trifling concessions, and then everything would be lovely. You see what I mean?”

“It seems a most reasonable proposal,” said Mrs. Sartwell, with a sigh; “but my opinion is of no value, especially in my own house.”

“Oh, don’t say that, Mrs. Sartwell. I am sure every one must value your opinion most highly—every one who has the privilege of hearing it. I assure you I do. Now, what do you think, Miss Sartwell?”

The young man beamed on the girl in his most fascinating manner, but his charming facial expression was in a measure lost, for Edna was looking at the carpet, apparently perplexed.

“I think,” she said at last, “that father, who spends nearly all his time dealing with the men, must understand the situation better than we do. He has had a great deal of experience with them, and, as I know, has given much thought to the difficulty; so it seems to me our advice may not be of any real value to him.”

Barney could scarcely repress a long whistle. So this was how the land lay. This demure miss actually had an opinion of her own, and was plainly going to stand with her father against the field. Heretofore everybody had always agreed with Barney, excepting of course those rascally students, who were no respecters of persons, and more especially had all women agreed with him, therefore this little bit of opposition, so decorously expressed, had a new and refreshing flavour. The wind had shifted; he must trim his sails to suit the breeze.

“There, Miss Sartwell, you have touched the weak spot in our case. Just what I said to the mater. ‘Mr. Sartwell’s on the spot,’ said I, ‘and he ought to know.’ Almost your very words, Miss Sartwell.”

An ominous cloud rested on Mrs. Sartwell’s brow.

“Surely,” she said, severely, “the owners of a business should have something to say about the way it is to be conducted.”

“The tendency of modern times,” cried Barney, airily, waving his hand, “appears to be entirely in the opposite direction, my dear madam. It is getting to be that whoever has a say in a business, the owners shall have the least. And I am not sure but this is, to a certain extent, logical. I have often heard my father say that Mr. Sartwell was the real maker of the business. Why then should he be interfered with?” Edna looked up gratefully at the enthusiastic young man, for she not only liked the sentiments he was beginning to express, but she liked the manly ring in his voice. Barney had frequently found this tone to be very taking, especially with the young and inexperienced, and he knew that he appeared at his best when assuming it, if none of his carping comrades were present. He could even work himself up into a sturdy state of indignation, if his audience were sympathetic, and he were free from the blighting influence of pessimistic young men he met in Bohemia.

“And now, Miss Sartwell, I’ll tell you what I propose Have a talk with your father; then, if Mrs. Sartwell will allow me, I will call again, and I can judge from what you say whether it will be worth while troubling Mr. Sartwell with our advice. You see, we have all the same object in view—we wish to help Mr. Sartwell if we can. If we can’t, then there is no harm done. You see what I mean?”

Mrs. Sartwell rather grudgingly assented to this. Edna said nothing.

“You see, ladies, I am an artist—a painter of pictures. I work, as it were, in the past and in the future. I feel that I do not belong to the present, and these little details I know I ought to leave to those who understand how to deal with them. I told the mater so. But whether we are able to help Mr. Sartwell or not, you must allow me to thank you for a very charming afternoon. My studio is in Chelsea. It is said to be the finest in London; but of course I care nothing about that, to me it is merely my workshop. But there are relaxations even in artistic life, and every Tuesday afternoon from three o’clock till five I am at home to my friends. I expect the mater to receive my guests, and you must promise to come, Mrs. Sartwell, will you not? I will send you cards, and you will be sure to meet some nice people. May I count on you? I know the mater will be pleased.”

“I shall be very happy to accept your invitation,” said Mrs. Sartwell, softening under the genial influence of the young man.

“And you, too, Miss Sartwell?”

Edna looked somewhat dubiously at her stepmother.

“You will bring Miss Sartwell with you, will you not?” persisted the young man.

“I am always glad to do anything to add to Edna’s pleasure,” said Mrs. Sartwell, a trifle less cordially; “but it must be as her father says.”

“Then you will use your influence with him, Miss Sartwell, won’t you, and get him to consent. I am sure he will not refuse if you care to come.”

“I should like very much to go,” said Edna.

“Then we will look on it as settled.”

When Barney stepped into his waiting hansom, he said to himself, “Ah, Barney, my boy, you light on your feet as usual. What a lovely girl! and a mind of her own, too, if she is so shy. Who would ever have suspected grim old Sartwell of having such a pretty daughter! I must persuade the mater to come off that particular hobbyhorse of hers, for it is easy to see the girl doesn’t want anyone to interfere with her father. If I can bring the mater around and get the cheque too, I’m a diplomatist.”