ained empty of George Halkett
and his trap. Mildred Caniper, calm now, and dressed for her journey,
had many instructions for Helen concerning food, the employment of Mrs.
Samson, bills to be paid, and other domestic details which at this
moment lacked reality.

"And," she ended, "tell Rupert not to be late. The house should be
locked up at ten o'clock."

"Yes," Helen answered, but when she looked at her stepmother she could
see only the distressed figure which had sat on the sofa, with hands
jerking on its knee. Did she love Philip Caniper? Had they quarrelled
long ago, and did she now want to make amends? No, no! She shut her
eyes. She must not pry. She felt as though she had caught herself
reading a letter which belonged to some one else.

Not deterred by such squeamishness, Miriam watched the luncheon-party
with an almost indecent eagerness. Her curiosity about Mildred Caniper
was blurred by pleasure in her departure, and each mouthful unwillingly
taken by that lady seemed to minister to Miriam's freedom. Now and then
she went to the garden gate to look for George, yet with her hurry to
drive out her stepmother there was that luckless necessity to let Uncle
Alfred go. On him her dark gaze was fastened expectantly. Surely he had
something to say to her; doubtless he waited for a fitting opportunity,
and she was determined that he should have it, but she realized that he
was past the age when he would leap from an unfinished meal to whisper
with her. This put a disturbing limit to her power, and with an
instinct for preserving her faith in herself she slightly shifted the
view from which she looked at him. So she was reassured, and she waited
like an affectionate grand-daughter in the dark corner of the passage
where his coat and hat were hanging.

"Let me help you on," she said.

"Thank you. Thank you. This is a sad business."

She handed him his hat. She found that, after all, she could say
nothing, and though hope was dying in her, she made no effort to revive
it.

"Well--good-bye," Uncle Alfred was saying, and holding out his hand.

She gave hers limply. "Good-bye." She hardly looked at him. Uncle
Alfred, who had loved her mother, was going without so much as a
cheering word. He looked old and rather dull as he went on with his
precise small steps into the hall and she walked listlessly behind him.

"He's like a little performing animal," she thought.

Fumbling in his breast pocket, he turned to her. "