protective of his cousin; the
Honourable James Burke; Mr. Brace, and one or two theatrical people who
had recognised London's Love, and had come over to exchange loud
greetings with her.

On the outskirts of this talking, gesticulating crowd of people there
appeared a tall, rigidly erect feminine figure in grey tweed, and a
black hat that managed to be at the same time unutterably frumpy and
"the hat of a lady."

It was, of course, the hat of my Aunt Anastasia. Over the upholstered
shoulder of Miss Million's American cousin I caught her eye. I then saw
her thin lips pronouncing my name:

"Beatrice."

I moved away from Mr. Burke, who was standing very close to me, and went
up to her. What to say to her I did not know.

But she spoke first, in the very quiet, very concentrated tone of voice
that she always used in the old days when I was "in for a row."

"Beatrice, you will come home with me at once."

It was not so much an order as a stated fact. People who put their
wishes in that way are not accustomed to be disobeyed.

My Aunt Anastasia didn't think for one moment that I should disobey her.
She imagined that I should at once leave this crowd of extraordinary
people, for I saw her glance of utter disapproval sweeping them all! She
imagined that I should return with her to the little nouveau-pauvre
villa at Putney and listen like a lamb to all she had to say.

Six months ago I should have done this, of course. But now--too much had
happened in between. I had seen too many other people, too many aspects
of life that was not the tiny stereoscopic view of things as they appear
to the Aunt Anastasias of this world.

I realised that I was a woman, and that this other woman, who had
dominated me for so long, had no claim upon me now.

I said gently and quietly, but quite firmly: "I am very sorry, Aunt
Anastasia, but I can't come just now."

"What do you mean, Beatrice?" this icily. "You don't seem to see that
you are singularly fortunate in having a home still open to you," said
my aunt. "After the disgrace that you have brought, this morning, upon
our family----"

"What's all this? What's all this?" broke in the cheerful, unabashed
voice of Miss Vi Vassity.

That lady had broken away from her theatrical friends--young men with
soft hats and clean-cut features--and, accompanied by her usual
inevitable jingle of gold hanging charms and toys and knick-knacks--had
turned to me.

She caught my arm in her plum