That afternoon, however, there was no picture of her legal owner in Aliette's mind. For months he had been receding further and further into the background of her thoughts, till now he had become more a menace than a man. It surprised her, as she walked slowly up Piccadilly after her meeting with Hector's father, to realize how little Hector had ever mattered, how much--always--Ronnie. Ronnie would be glad perhaps, to hear of her meeting with the admiral.

"Dear old Billy!" she thought, "dear old Billy!" And thinking about him, a rare tinge of selfishness streaked her altruism. Suppose Billy succeeded! Suppose Hector really did set her free! How wonderful to be "respectable" again--to be done with the make-believe "Mrs. Cavendish" of Powolney Mansions, to be really and truly and legally Ronnie's! Always Ronnie had been splendid, loyalest of lovers; and yet--and yet--even in the shelter of a lover's arms one was conscious of outlawry, of the world's ostracism. What if, soon perhaps, the lover's arms were to be a husband's?

But at that, illusions burst as bubbles in the breeze. Once more the tension of the past days strung Aliette's mind to misery. She was an outlaw, a woman apart--a woman ostracized--worse, a woman who had failed her mate. Memory, killing illusions, cast itself back, remembering and exaggerating her every little unloving word, her every little unloving gesture, blaming her for them. "My fault," thought Aliette, "mine and mine only. I have been selfish to him. Utterly selfish. I've been--like I used to be with Hector."

Thought threw up its line, horrified at the comparison; and, abruptly conscious of every-day life, Aliette found herself in Berkeley Square. Automatically she turned down Bruton Street.

The mere name of the street--newly-painted in black block letters on gray stone--reminded her again of Billy, of Billy's visit to Julia Cavendish. At whose instigation, his own or hers, had the admiral visited Ronnie's mother? Hope rose again; but now, with hope, mingled despair. Had she so far failed Ronnie as to have forfeited his confidence?

Still walking automatically, Aliette found herself facing the mahogany door of Julia's house, and rang the bell.

"Yes," said Kate, "Mrs. Cavendish was at home, and alone. Would Mrs. Ronnie" (it was an understood thing in the basement of Bruton Street that Aliette should be referred to as "Mrs. Ronnie") "like some tea?"

"Thank you, Kate. That would be very nice." Aliette, unannounced, went slowly up the print-hung staircase; tapped on the drawing-room door; heard a faint "Come in"; and turned the handle.

Ronnie's mother lay on the sofa. She looked white, exhausted; but her lips framed themselves to a smile.

"I may come in, mayn't I?" Aliette's misery increased at the sight of her hostess's pallor. "Kate's promised to bring me some tea. I'm not disturbing you, am I?"

"My dear, you're always welcome. Come and sit here by me." Julia made place on the sofa, and Aliette sat down.

"I wonder why she came this afternoon," mused the elder woman. "I wonder if, by any chance, she can have found out. Awkward, if she has found it. Very awkward." But there was no tremor of guilt in her, "How's Ronnie?"

"Quite well, thank you."

"And you?"

"Oh, I'm all right. A little worried, that's all."

"Worried? What about?"

"Oh, various things."

Kate, bringing the tea, interrupted their conversation. Watching Aliette as she drank, Julia saw that the hands, usually so steady, trembled. "Can't you tell me about the worries?" she said kindly.

"There's nothing--really." Aliette's voice trembled as her hands. "Only I--I--met Hector's father just now. And somehow--it rather made me realize--my position."

"Did he tell you," Julia's courage fought with her fatigue, "that he'd been to see me?"

"He did." Aliette put down her tea-cup on the little mahogany stand. "May I know--did you send for him?"

"Yes. I sent for him." A smile. "You mustn't be angry with me."

"But why--why wasn't I told about it?"

"Then you are angry?" Another smile.

"Not angry. Only a little hurt."

"Hurt! Why? It was done in your interests." The old eyes looked into the young. "We thought that, if we consulted you, you mightn't allow it."

"We! Then Ronnie"--the young eyes looked into the old--"Ronnie knew. And he never told me--he never told me."

"It wasn't Ronnie's fault." Julia laid a hand on Aliette's shoulder.

At the touch, it seemed to the younger woman as though all the misery of the past days stabbed to one dagger-point of pain. Jealousy wrenched at her tongue. She wanted to cry out, "Oh, you're cruel, cruel. Why can't you tell me the truth, the truth?" But the pain stabbed her dumb; stabbed and stabbed till her mind was one unbearable tension of self-torture. Ronnie no longer loved her. Ronnie only wanted to do his duty by her. And it was her own fault, her very own, ownest fault, for not having loved him enough.

And then, suddenly, the tension snapped--leaving her weak, defenseless.

"You're so good--so much too good to me," faltered Aliette. "So infinitely better than I deserve. If only--if only I hadn't brought all this trouble into your life."

"Nonsense, child," said Julia bruskly--for, despite her own weariness, she recognized hysterics in the other's voice.

"It isn't nonsense. I've brought you only troubles--troubles."

"Don't be foolish. The troubles, as you call them, are nothing. Nothing at all in comparison with Ronnie's happiness."

"Happiness!" Now hysteria was blatant in the other's every word. "Happiness! How can I make him happy? I can't--can't even make a home for him. All I've done is to--to let him keep me--in a--in a boarding-house."

"You're overtired, child. Overwrought. Otherwise you wouldn't talk like that." The brusquerie had given place to a quiet understanding tenderness; the hand tightened on Aliette's shoulder. "I tell you, you have brought happiness into our lives. Into Ronnie's life and into mine. Nothing that either of us could ever do----"

"But I'm not worth it. I'm not worth it." Tear-choked, Aliette seized Julia's hand and pressed it to her lips. "I've been rotten--rotten to your son. That's why he didn't tell me about Billy."

"Rubbish!" Resolutely the elder woman withdrew her hand. "Utter rubbish! It was entirely my fault that you weren't told about the admiral."

"Your fault?" A ray of hope illumined the brown eyes.

"Yes. Ronnie wanted you to know. But I overpersuaded him."

Silently the blue eyes held the brown, till--gradually--self-control came back to Aliette; till--gradually--she realized the tension gone from her brain.

"I'm sorry," she began. "I don't often make scenes."

"My dear"--exhausted, Julia lay back on the cushions--"you needn't apologize. No one understands better than I that life isn't altogether easy for you. But don't lose your pluck. Believe me, it'll all come out right now that we have the admiral on our side."

"Billy hasn't much influence over Hector." There was no fear, only certainty in the statement. "Hector's so vain. It's his vanity, only his vanity that prevents him from giving me my freedom."

"One day he'll be forced to give you your freedom. But," of a sudden, anxiety crept into Julia's tired voice, "if he doesn't? What if he doesn't give you your freedom, child?"

"Even if he doesn't,"--proudly, all the misery of the past days forgotten, Aliette took up the unspoken challenge--"even if he never does,"--proudly, all her being resuffused with happy courage, she rose to her feet--"it will make no difference. Whatever happens, I shall always be your son's--I shall always be Ronnie's."

And bending down, she sealed the promise with a farewell kiss--a kiss whose memory lingered with Julia long after Aliette had gone, comforting her against the prescience which had prompted that unspoken challenge, even against the prescience of death.