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“Made the money fly?”

The two were coming to settle themselves in chairs close to the side window.

“Not exactly. Haven’t you heard what’s the matter with her?”

Gwendolyn’s face paled a little. There was something the matter with her mother?—her dear, beautiful, young mother! The clasped hands were pressed to her breast.

“Ambitious?” hazarded Louise, confidently.

“It’s no secret. Everybody’s laughing at her,—at the rebuffs she takes; the money she gives to charity (wedges, you understand); the quantities of dresses she buys; the way she slaps on the jewels. She’s got the society bee in her bonnet!”

Gwendolyn caught her breath. The society bee in her bonnet?

“Ah!” breathed Louise, as if comprehending. Then, “Dear! dear!”

“She talks nothing else. She hears nothing else. She sees nothing else.”

“Bad as that?”

“Goes wherever she can shove in—subscription lectures and musicales, hospital teas, Christmas bazars. And she benches her Poms; has boxes at the Horse Show and the Opera; gives gold-plate dinners, and Heaven knows what!”

“Ha! ha! You haven’t boosted her, dear?”

“Not a bit of it! Make a point of never being seen anywhere with her.”

“And he?”

Gwendolyn swallowed. He was her father.

“Well, it has kept the poor fellow in harness all the time, of course. You should have seen him when he first came to town—straight and boyish, and very handsome. (You know the type.) He’s changed! Burns his candles at both ends.”

“Hm!”

Gwendolyn blinked with the effort of making mental notes.

“You haven’t heard the latest about him?”

“Trying to make some Club?”

Whispering—”On the edge of a crash.”

“Who told you?”

“Oh, a little bird.”

Up came both palms to cover Gwendolyn’s mouth. But not to smother mirth. A startled cry had all but escaped her. A little bird! She knew of that bird! He had told things against her—true things more often than not—to Jane and Miss Royle. And now here he was chattering about her father!

“It’s the usual story,” commented Louise calmly, “with these nouveaux riches.”

“Sh!” A moment of stillness, as if both were listening. Then, “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?“

“I—er—read it fairly well.”

“Parlez-vous Francais?“

“Oh, oui! Oui!“

“Allors.” And there followed, in undertones, a short, spirited conversation in the Gallic.

Gwendolyn made a silent resolution to devote more time and thought to the peevish and staccato instruction of Miss Du Bois.

The two were interrupted by a light, quick step outside. Again the hall door opened.

“Oh, you’ll pardon my having to desert you, won’t you?” It was Gwendolyn’s mother. “I didn’t intend being so long.”

Gwendolyn half-started forward, then stopped.

“Why, of course!”—with sounds of rising.

“Certainly!”

“Differences below stairs, I find, require prompt action.”

“I fancy you have oceans of executive ability,” declared Louise, warmly. “That Orphans’ Home affair—I hear you managed it tremendously!”

“No! No!”

“Really, my dear,”—it was the other woman—”to be quite frank, we must confess that we haven’t missed you! We’ve been enjoying our glimpse of the nursery.”

“It’s simply lovely!” cried Louise.

“And what a perfectly sweet dressing-table!”

“Have you seen my little daughter?—Thomas!”

“Yes, Madam.”

“There’s a draught coming from somewhere—”

“It’s the side window, Madam.”

Instinctively Gwendolyn flattened herself against the wood-work at her back.

Three or four steps brought Thomas across the floor. Then his two big hands appeared high up on the hangings. The next moment, the hands parted, sweeping the curtains with them.

To escape detection was impossible. A quick thought made Gwendolyn raise a face upon which was a forced expression that bore only a faint resemblance to a smile.

“Boo!” she said, jumping out at him.

Startled, he fell back. “Why, Miss Gwendolyn!”

“Gwendolyn?” repeated her mother, surprised. “Why, what were you doing there, darling?”

“Gwendolyn!“—this in a faint gasp from both visitors.

Gwendolyn came slowly forward. She did not raise her eyes; only curtsied.

“So this is your little daughter!” A gloved hand was reached out, and Gwendolyn was drawn forward. “How cunning!“

Gwendolyn recognized the voice of Louise. Now, she looked up. And saw a pleasant face, young, but not so pretty as her mother’s. She shook hands bashfully. Then shook again with an older woman, whose plain countenance was dimly familiar. After which, giving a sudden little bound, and putting up eager arms, she was caught to her mother.

“My baby!”

“Moth-er!“

Cheek caressed cheek.

“She’s six, isn’t she, my dear?” asked the plain, elderly one.

“Oh, she’s seven.” A soft hand stroked the yellow hair.

“As much as that? Really?”

The inference was not lost upon Gwendolyn. She tightened her embrace. And turning her head on her mother’s breast, looked frank resentment.