The next three or four days passed slowly for those who waited. A spirit of uneasiness pervaded the household. Among the servants, from Jones down, there was dismay. It was not even remotely probable that Mrs Desmond would remain, and they confessed to a certain affection for her, strange as it may appear to those who know the traits of servants who have been well treated by those above them.

Frederic flatly refused to meet the steamer when she docked. As if swayed by his decision, Dawes and Riggs likewise abandoned a plan to greet the returning master and his bride as they came down the gangplank. But for the almost peremptory counsel of Mrs Desmond, Brood's son would have absented himself from the house on the day of their arrival. Jones and a footman went to the pier with the chauffeur.

It was half-past two in the afternoon when the automobile drew up in front of the house and the fur-coated footman nimbly hopped down and threw open the door.

James Brood, a tall, distinguished-looking man of fifty, stepped out of the limousine. For an instant, before turning to assist his wife from the car, he allowed his keen eyes to sweep the windows on the lower floor. In one of them stood his son, holding the lace curtains apart and smiling a welcome that seemed sincere. He waved his hand to the man on the side-walk. Brood responded with a swift, almost perfunctory gesture, and then held out his hand to the woman who was descending.

Frederic's intense gaze was fixed on the stranger who was coming into his life. At a word from Brood she glanced up at the window. The smile still lingered on the young man's lips, but his eyes were charged with an expression of acute wonder. She smiled, but he was scarcely aware of the fact. He watched them cross the side-walk and mount the steps.

He had never looked upon a more beautiful creature in all his life. A kind of stupefaction held him motionless until he heard the door close behind them. In that brief interval a picture had been impressed upon his senses that was to last for ever.

She was slightly above the medium height, slender and graceful even in the long, thick coat that enveloped her. She did not wear a veil. He had a swift but enduring glimpse of dark, lustrous eyes; of long lashes that drooped; of a curiously pallid, perfectly modelled face; of red lips and very white teeth; of jet-black hair parted above a broad, clear brow to curtain the temple and ear; of a firm, sensitive chin. Somehow he received the extraordinary impression that the slim, lithe body was never cold; that she expressed in some indefinable way the unvarying temperature of youth.

He hurried into the hall, driven by the spur of duty. They were crossing the vestibule. Jones, who had preceded them in a taxicab, was holding open the great hall door. Dawes and Higgs, shivering quite as much with excitement as from the chilly blast that swept in through the storm-doors, occupied a point of vantage directly behind the butler. They suggested a reception committee. Frederic was obliged to remain in the background.

He heard his father's warm, almost gay response to the greetings of the old men, whose hands he wrung with fervour that was unmistakable. He heard him present them to the new Mrs Brood as “the best old boys in all the world,” and they were both saying, with spasmodic cackles of pleasure, that she “mustn't believe a word the young rascal said.”

He was struck by the calm, serene manner in which she accepted these jocular contributions to the occasion. Her smile was friendly, her handshake cordial, and yet there was an unmistakable air of tolerance, as of one who is accustomed to tribute. The rather noisy acclamations of the old adventurers brought no flush of embarrassment to her cheek; not the flicker of an eyelid, nor a protesting word or frown. She merely smiled and thanked them in simple, commonplace phrases.

Frederic, who was given to forming swift impressions, most of which sprang from his own varying moods and were seldom permanent, formed an instant and rather startling opinion of the newcomer. She was either a remarkable actress or a woman whose previous station in life had been far more exalted than the one she now approached. He had an absurd notion that he might be looking upon a person of noble birth.

Her voice was low-pitched and marked by huskiness that was peculiar in that it was musical, not throaty. Frederic, on first seeing her, had leaped to the conclusion that her English would not be perfect. He was somewhat surprised to discover that she had but the faintest trace of an accent.

The exchange of greetings at the door seemed to him unnecessarily prolonged. He stood somewhat apart from the little circle, uncomfortable and distinctly annoyed with the old men who, in their garrulous gallantry, blocked the way in both directions. He awoke suddenly, however, to the realisation that he had been looking into his new stepmother's eyes for a long time and that she was returning his gaze with some intensity.

“And this?” she said, abruptly breaking in upon one of Danbury's hasty reminiscences, effectually ending it. “This is Frederic?”

She came directly toward the young man, her small, gloved hand extended. Her eyes were looking into his with an intentness that disconcerted him. There was no smile on her lips. It was as if she regarded this moment as a pronounced crisis.

Frederic mumbled something fatuous about being glad to see her, and felt his face burn under her steady gaze. His father came forward.

“Yes; this is Frederic, my dear,” he said, without a trace of warmth in his voice. As she withdrew her hand from Frederic's clasp James Brood extended his. “How are you, Frederic?”

“Quite well, sir.”

They shook hands in the most perfunctory manner.

“I need not ask how you are, father,” said the son, after an instant's hesitation. “You never looked better, sir.”

“Thank you. I am well. Ah, Mrs Desmond! It is good to be home again with you all. My dear, permit me to introduce Mrs John Desmond. You have heard me speak of my old comrade and——”

“I have heard you speak of Mr Desmond a thousand times,” said his wife. There may have been a shade of emphasis on the prefix, but it was so slight that no one remarked it save the widow of John Desmond, who had joined the group.

“The best pal a man ever had,” said Mr Dawes with conviction. “Wasn't he, Riggs?”

“He was,” said Mr Riggs loudly, as if expecting someone to dispute it.

“Will you go to your room at once, Mrs Brood?” asked Mrs Desmond.

The new mistress of the house had not offered to shake hands with her, as James Brood had done. She had moved closer to Frederic and was smiling in a rather shy, pleading way, in direct contrast to her manner of the moment before. The smile was for her stepson. She barely glanced at Mrs Desmond.

“Thank you, no. I see a nice big fire, and—oh, I have been so cold!” She shivered very prettily.

“Come!” cried her husband. “That's just the thing.” No one spoke as they moved toward the library. “We must try to thaw out,” he added dryly, with a faint smile on his lips.

His wife laid her hand on Frederic's arm. “It is cold outside, Frederic,” she said; “very cold. I am not accustomed to the cold.”

If anyone had told him beforehand that his convictions, or his prejudices, could be overthrown in the twinkling of an eye, he would have laughed him to scorn. He was prepared to dislike her. He was determined that his hand should be against her in the conflict that was bound to come.

And now, in a flash, his incomprehensible heart proved treacherous. She had touched some secret spring in the bottom of it, and a strange, new emotion rushed up within him, like the flood which finds a new channel and will not be denied by mortal ingenuity. A queer, wistful note of sympathy in her voice had done the trick. Something in the touch of her fingers on his arm completed the mystery. He was conscious of a mighty surge of relief. The horizon cleared for him.

“We shall do our best to keep you warm,” he said quite gaily, and was somewhat astonished at himself.

They had preceded the others into the library. James Brood was divesting himself of his coat in the hall, attended by the leechlike old men. Mrs Desmond stood in the doorway, a detached figure.

“You must love me, Frederic. You must be very, very fond of me, not for your father's sake, but for mine. Then we shall be great friends, not antagonists.”

He was helping her with her coat.

“I confess I looked forward to you with a good deal of animosity,” he said.

“It was quite natural,” she said simply. “A stepmother is not of one's own choosing, as a rule.”

“She's usually resented,” said he.

“But I shall not be a stepmother,” she said quickly. Her eyes were serious for an instant, then filled with a luminous smile. “I shall be Yvonne to you, and you Frederic to me. Let it be a good beginning.”

“You are splendid,” he cried. “It's not going to be at all bad.”

“I am sure you will like me,” she said composedly.

Brood joined them at the fireside.

“My dear, Mrs Desmond will show you over the house when you are ready. You will be interested in seeing the old place. Later on I shall take you up to my secret hiding-place, as they say in books. Ranjab will have the rooms in order by this evening. Where is your daughter, Mrs Desmond?”

“She is at work on the catalogue, Mr Brood, in the jade room. In your last letter you instructed her to finish that——”

“But this is a holiday, Mrs Desmond,” said he, frowning. “Jones, will you ask Miss Lydia to join us for tea at half-past four?”

“You will adore Lydia,” said Frederic to Mrs Brood.

Apparently she did not hear him, for she gave no sign. She was looking about the room with eyes that seemed to take in everything. For the moment her interest appeared to be centred on the inanimate, to the complete exclusion of all other objects. Frederic had the odd notion that she was appraising her new home with the most calculating of minds.

Even as he watched her he was struck by the subtle change that came into her dark eyes. It lingered for the briefest moment, but the impression he got was lasting. There was something like dread in the far-away look that settled for a few seconds and then lifted. She caught him looking at her, and smiled once more, but nervously. Then her glance went swiftly to the face of James Brood, who was listening to something that Mrs Desmond was saying. It rested there for a short but intense scrutiny, and the smile began to die.

“I am sure I shall be very happy in this dear old house,” she said quietly. “Your own mother must have loved it, Frederic.”

James Brood started. Unnoticed by the others, his fingers tightened on the gloves he carried in his hand.

“I never knew my mother,” said the young man. “She died when I was a baby.”

“But of course this was her home, was it not?”

“I don't know,” said Frederic uncomfortably. “I suppose so. I—I came here a few years ago, and——”

“But even though you never knew her, there must still be something here that—that—how shall I say it? I mean, you must feel that she and you were here together years and years ago. One may never have seen his mother, yet he can always feel her. There is something—shall I say spiritual, in——”

Her husband broke in upon these unwelcome reflections. His voice was curiously harsh.

“Mrs Desmond is waiting, Yvonne.”

She drew herself up.

“Are you in such great haste, Mrs Desmond?” she asked in a voice that cut like a knife. Instinctively she glanced at Frederic's face. She saw the muscles of the jaw harden and an angry light leap into his eyes. Instantly her arrogance fell away. “I beg your pardon, Mrs Desmond. I have many bad habits. Now will you kindly show me to my room? I prefer that you and not one of the servants should be my guide. Au revoir, Frederic. Till tea-time, James.”

Her eyes were sparkling, her husky voice once more full of the appealing quality that could not be denied. The flush of injured pride faded from Mrs Desmond's brow and a faint look of surprise crept into her eyes. She was surprised at her own inclination to overlook the affront, and not by the change in Mrs Brood's manner. She smiled an unspoken pardon and stood aside for the new mistress to pass in front of her. To her further amazement the younger woman laid a hand upon her arm and gave it a gentle, friendly pressure.

The men watched them in silence as they left the room side by side. A moment later they heard the soft laughter of the two women as they mounted the stairs.

Frederic drew a long breath.

“She's splendid, father,” he said impulsively.

Brood's face was still clouded. He did not respond to the eager tribute.

Mr Dawes cleared his throat and cast a significant glance toward the dining-room.

“What do you say to a drink to the bride, Jim?” he said, somewhat explosively. He had been silent for a longer period than usual. It wasn't natural for him to be voiceless, even when quite alone.

“Good idea,” added Mr Riggs. “I was just thinking of it myself. A health to the bride, my boy, and good luck to you both.”

“A glass to prosperity,” said Mr Dawes, with a wave of his hand.

“And two for posterity,” added Mr Riggs in an ecstasy of triumph.

A flush mounted to Brood's cheek. Young Frederic abruptly turned away.

“Thank you, my friends,” said Brood, after a moment. “I'll leave the bumpers to you, if you don't mind. It isn't meet that the groom should drink to himself, and that's what you are suggesting. Go and have your drinks, gentlemen, but leave me out.”

They looked disappointed, aggrieved.

“I said posterity,” expostulated Mr Riggs. “No harm in your drinking to that, is there?”

“Shut up, Riggs,” hissed Mr Dawes, nudging him with some violence.

“Oh!” said his friend, with a quick look at Frederic. Then, as if inspired: “Come on, Freddy. Join us. Come and drink to the—to your—er—stepmother.” He floundered miserably. “My God!” he gasped under his breath.

“Thank you, Mr Riggs. I'm not drinking,” said Frederic.

Dawes conducted Riggs to the dining-room door. There he turned and remarked:

“Stick to that resolution, Freddy. See what old man Riggs has come to! If it wasn't for me and your father he'd be in the gutter.”

“That's right, Freddy,” agreed Mr Riggs with rare amiability. He felt that he owed something to Frederic in the way of apology.

Father and son faced each other after the old men had disappeared. They were a striking pair, each in his way an example of fine, clean manhood. The father was taller by two inches than the son, and yet Frederic was nearly six feet in his stockings. Both were spare men, erect and gracefully proportioned.

Brood gave out the impression of great strength, of steel sinews, of invincible power; Frederic did not suggest physical strength, and yet he was a clean-limbed, well-built fellow. He had a fine head, a slim body whose every movement proclaimed nervous energy, and a face that denoted temperament of the most pronounced character. His hair was black and straight, growing thickly above the forehead and ears; his eyes were of a deep gray, changeable at the dictates of his emotions. A not unhealthy pallor lay on the surface of his skin, readily submissive to the sensations which produce colour at the slightest provocation. His eyebrows were rather thick, but delicately arched, and the lashes were long. It was not a strong face, nor was it weak; it represented character without force.

On the other hand, James Brood's lean, handsome face was full of power. His gray eyes were keen, steady, compelling, and seldom alight with warmth. His jaw was firm, square, resolute, and the lines that sank heavily into the flesh in his cheeks were put there not by age but by the very vigour of manhood. His hair was quite gray.

Frederic waited for his father to speak. He had ventured a remark before the departure of the old men and it had been ignored. But James Brood had nothing to say.

“She is very attractive, father,” said the young man at last, almost wistfully. He did not realise it, but he was groping for sympathy. Brood had been in the house for a quarter of an hour, after an absence of nearly a year, and yet he might have been away no longer than a day for all that he revealed in his attitude toward his son. His greeting had been cold, casual, matter-of-fact. Frederic expected little more than that; still he felt in a vague way that now, if never again, the ice of reserve might be broken between them, if only for a moment. He was ready and willing to do his part.

Brood was studying the young man's face with an intensity that for the moment disconcerted him. He seemed bent on fixing certain features in his mind's eye, as if his memory had once played him false and should not do so again. It was a habit of Brood's, after prolonged separations, to look for something in the boy's face that he wanted to see and yet dreaded, something that might have escaped him when in daily contact with him. Now, at the end of the rather offensive scrutiny, he seemed to shake his head slightly, although one could not have been sure.

“And as charming as she is attractive, Frederic,” he said, with a faint flush of the enthusiasm he suppressed.

“Who is she?” asked his son, without realising the bluntness of his question.

“Who is she?” repeated his father, raising his eyebrows slightly. “She is Mrs James Brood.”

“I—I beg your pardon,” stammered Frederic. “I didn't mean to put it in that way. Who was she? Where did you meet her, and—oh, I want to know all there is to tell, father. I've heard nothing. I am naturally curious.”

Brood stopped him with a gesture.

“She was Yvonne Lestrange before we were married, Mlle Lestrange; we met some time ago at the house of a mutual friend in Paris. I assure you her references are all that could be desired.” His tone was sarcastic.

Frederic flushed.

“I'm sorry I asked the questions, sir,” he said stiffly.

Brood suddenly laughed, a quiet laugh that had some trace of humour and a touch of compunction in it.

“I beg your pardon, Frederic. Come up to my room and smoke a cigar with me while I'm changing. I'll tell you about her. She is wonderful.”

To his own surprise, and to Frederic's astonishment, he linked his arm in the young man's and started toward the hall. Afterward he was to wonder even more than he wondered then what it was that created the sudden desire to atone for the hurt look he had brought into the eyes of Matilde's son and the odd longing to touch his arm gently.