cks. Her guiding motto in life was that helpful line of
Horace--_Aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem_. (For the
benefit of those who have not, like myself, enjoyed an expensive
classical education,--memento--Take my
tip--servare--preserve--aequam--an unruffled--mentem--mind--rebus in
arduis--in every crisis). She had only been out of the room a few
minutes, and in that brief period a middle-aged lady of commanding
aspect had apparently come up through a trap. It would have been enough
to upset most girls, but Jane Hubbard bore it calmly. All through her
vivid life her bedroom had been a sort of cosy corner for murderers,
alligators, tarantulas, scorpions, and every variety of snake, so she
accepted the middle-aged lady without comment.

"Good evening," she said placidly.

Mrs. Hignett, having rallied from her moment of weakness, glared at the
new arrival dumbly. She could not place Jane. From the airy way in which
she had strolled into the room, she appeared to be some sort of a nurse;
but she wore no nurse's uniform.

"Who are you?" she asked stiffly.

"Who are _you_?" asked Jane.

"I," said Mrs. Hignett portentously, "am the owner of this house, and I
should be glad to know what you are doing in it. I am Mrs. Horace
Hignett."

A charming smile spread itself over Jane's finely-cut face.

"I'm so glad to meet you," she said. "I have heard so much about you."

"Indeed?" said Mrs. Hignett coldly. "And now I should like to hear a
little about you."

"I've read all your books," said Jane. "I think they're wonderful."

In spite of herself, in spite of a feeling that this young woman was
straying from the point, Mrs. Hignett could not check a slight influx of
amiability. She was an authoress who received a good deal of incense
from admirers, but she could always do with a bit more. Besides, most of
the incense came by post. Living a quiet and retired life in the
country, it was rarely that she got it handed to her face to face. She
melted quite perceptibly. She did not cease to look like a basilisk, but
she began to look like a basilisk who has had a good lunch.

"My favourite," said Jane, who for a week had been sitting daily in a
chair in the drawing-room adjoining the table on which the authoress's
complete works were assembled, "is 'The Spreading Light.' I _do_ like
'The Spreading Light!'"

"It was written some years ago," said Mrs. Hignett with something
approaching cordiality, "and I have since