had already been demolished, and she was at work on a creamy puree
soup of the most exquisite pale green colour. It was clear that she had
not lost a moment in getting to her meal after the men had left.
Margaret was eating too, but though there was fresh colour in her
cheeks her eyes had a startled look each time she looked up, as if
something very unusual had happened.

The servant whispered something in Madame Bonanni's ear. She seemed to
hesitate a moment, and glanced at Margaret before making up her mind.
Then she nodded to the man without saying a word, and went on eating
her soup.

A few seconds later Lushington entered. Margaret faced the door and
their eyes met. Madame Bonanni dropped her spoon into her plate with a
clang and uttered a scream of delight, as if she had not known
perfectly well that Lushington was coming.

'What luck!' she cried. 'Little Miss Donne, this is my son!'

Margaret's jaw dropped in sheer amazement.

'Your son? Mr. Lushington is your son?'

'Yes. Ah, my child!' she cried, springing up and kissing Lushington on
both cheeks with resounding affection. 'What a joy it is to see you!'

Lushington was rather pale as he laid his hand quietly on Madame
Bonanni's.

'I have the pleasure of knowing Miss Donne already, mother,' he said
steadily, 'but she did not know that I was your son. She is a little
surprised.'

'Yes,' answered Margaret, faintly, 'a little.'

'Ah, you know each other?' Madame Bonanni seemed delighted. 'So much
the better! Miss Donne will keep our little secret, I am sure. Besides
she has another name, too. She is Senorita Margarita da Cordova from
to-day. Sit down, my darling child! You are starving! I know you are
starving! Angelo!' she screamed at the smiling servant, 'why do you
stand there staring like a stuffed codfish? Bring more plovers' eggs!'

Angelo smiled as sweetly as ever and disappeared for an instant. Madame
Bonanni took Lushington by the shoulders, as if he had been a little
boy, made him sit down in the vacant place beside her, unfolded the
napkin herself, spread it upon his knees, patted both his cheeks and
kissed the top of his head, precisely as she had done when he was six
years old. Margaret looked on in dumb surprise, and poor Lushington
turned red to the roots of his hair.

'You have no idea what a dear child he is,' she said to Margaret, as
she sat herself down in her own chair again. 'He has been my passion
ever since he was born! My dea