Ben was receiving her first visit from her stepmother.

"First of all let me thank you so much for being so kind to my sister," Belle said. "She's not a very decisive person. Perhaps you gathered that?"

Ben admitted it.

"Anyone at all emphatic can do what they like with her," said Belle. "And that's why I'm so glad she's in your hands.

"But that's not what I came about," said the comfortable lady as she sank luxuriously into a chair. "You must forgive me butting in like this, but I want help badly and only you can give it."

"The cook hasn't left?" Ben asked.

"Oh, no. She seems to be satisfied, if one dare use such a strong word about a cook, or indeed any servant, nowadays. No, it's not the cook, it's your father."

"Yes?" said Ben.

"Well, it's rather a difficult thing to talk about to a daughter—and a stepdaughter too—and one knows what stepmothers are supposed to be—but I'm all at sea about him. He's so different from what I was expecting—from what he promised, in fact. When we were talking about the second marriage he was so thoughtful and considerate of me, so generous, always brought me flowers or some little thing, and you know how fond I am of marrons glacÉs—too fond, the doctor says—and I was very lonely, you know, and I had felt so neglected since Vincent died; and it did really seem as if I was to have someone to pet me again after all. Because Vincent, you know, was the kindest man. There was nothing he wouldn't do to please me; he was always bringing cushions, and arranging for week-ends in nice hotels, and motor trips.

"Well, so was your father at first; but this is what is troubling me: Vincent kept it up to the end, but your father has dropped it already. Now, what I want to know, dear, is this: is it just your father's way or has he got tired of me?"

"Oh, I don't think he's got tired of you," said Ben, earnestly.

"Was he like that to your mother?" Belle asked.

"He wasn't very thoughtful of little things, ever," said Ben. "But he was fond of her."

"Yes," said Belle. "But how did he show it? It isn't enough for me to be merely in a house with a man; see him at dinner and watch him reading the paper and, what is much worse, hearing him do it—you have no notion how that rustling gets on one's nerves, when he turns over; that isn't marriage to me. And he is so particular about the food and the service. Was he always like that?"

"He was always rather—well, I might almost say fussy," Ben admitted.

"I wouldn't mind his fussiness if he was fussy over me too," said Belle. "But he isn't. It is all for his own comfort. Of course we're all selfish, I know. Every one's selfish. I'm selfish and I'm lazy. But I do try to play the game, and I don't think he does. And I'm getting frightened." She lowered her voice and drew her chair nearer. "Because, I've got the idea that Vincent knows. I've got the idea that he's looking. I can't say exactly where he's looking from; I can't see him with my mind's eye at all—but I feel that he is looking. Out of some kind of window up there, I suppose; for he was a good man, Vincent was—a dear, good man, kind and open-handed and ready to think the best of every one, even if he did use awful language sometimes and take a little too much wine now and then; but he was so nice in his cups, as they say, not like some people at all: gentle and exaggeratedly polite, even though a little maudlin. In spite of all this, I'm sure he's up there. But it's dreadful thinking that he's looking on and knowing and being sorry for me and"—she sank her voice still lower—"hating your father. Because, my dear, it's going to make me hate him too. There, I've said it."

"Oh, no, Belle!" cried Ben. "You mustn't, you mustn't."

"But I can't help it," said Belle. "It's coming on, and if it gets worse I shall leave him. There's nothing to stay for now"—she sobbed a little—"but if it got worse it would be a sin to stay on."

While her stepmother had been talking Ben's thoughts had flown to the future and all that the breaking up of her father's present establishment would mean; but only hazily. Directly she was left alone they assumed the clearest of outlines. For if her father were single again what would he do? It was only too evident: he would request his daughter to return. And what would she do? She would have to say yes. She would not have the courage—or possibly even the right—to say no. Horrible to lose all this independence, this amusing work just as it was beginning to pay. But it would be inevitable, because he was her father, and he was getting old, and she would have no real reason to offer against it, being free as she was.

If it had been anyone else's father she would not have liked him at all, she found herself thinking. Ought the accident of parentage to entail such self-sacrificing devotion as it often does? Anyway, it did; and so long as she was free she would probably have to return.

But supposing she was not free! Her heart fluttered.

If she were not free—if she had thrown in her lot with another—her father would have no right....