urs with a fair amount of satisfaction, thanks to the attention which
was paid to all her wants and wishes. Lettice did not suffer anything to
interfere with the regular routine which she had marked out for her
mother's comfort. She and her maid Milly between them kept the old lady
in peace of mind and constant good humor; and if Mrs. Campion still
believed that Sydney was their great benefactor, and that it behoved her
to comport herself with dignity and grace as the mother of a Lord
Chancellor, Lettice did not attempt the hopeless task of undeceiving
her.

On this particular day there had been a poor pretence of morning work.
She had arranged her papers, the ink and pen were ready to her hand, and
a few lines were actually written. But her ideas were all in confusion,
and eluded her when she tried to fix them. She could not settle to
anything, and instead of writing she found herself drawing figures on
the blotting-pad. She knew that of old as a bad symptom, and gave up
trying to be industrious. The French window stood open, and the balmy
June morning tempted her out into the garden. She picked some flowers
for her vases, and pinned a rosebud on the collar of her soft grey
dress. It was a simple, straight-flowing dress, of the make which suits
every woman best, tall or short, handsome or plain, depending for its
beauty on shape and material alone, without any superfluous trimmings;
for Lettice had a man's knack of getting her dressmaker to obey orders,
and would have scorned to wear and pay for, as a matter of course,
whatever trappings might be sent home to her in lieu of what she wanted.

Clearly there were special reasons for her perturbation of mind, and if
any other woman had been at her side, and watched her in and out of the
house for ten minutes at a time, she would have had no difficulty in
divining that Lettice expected a visitor. She would probably go further
than this, and draw some confident conclusion as to the kind of welcome
likely to be accorded to the visitor; but here, at any rate, the
criticism would have been premature. Lettice did expect a visitor--Mr.
Alan Walcott to wit; but she had not the slightest notion as to how she
should receive him, or whether she would prefer that he should come or
stay away.

Her friendship with the poet had grown steadily since their first
meeting, and they were now on tolerably familiar terms. His manner had
made it impossible for her to doubt that he liked to tal