o persuade herself that the hats in there
would suit her, and that she liked what she did not like. In other shop
windows she looked, too. It was a year since she had seen any, and for
thirty-four years past she had only seen them in company with the Squire
or with her daughters, none of whom cared much for shops.

The people, too, were different from the people that she saw when she
went about with Horace or her girls. Almost all seemed charming, having
a new, strange life, in which she--Margery Pendyce--had unaccountably
a little part; as though really she might come to know them, as though
they might tell her something of themselves, of what they felt and
thought, and even might stand listening, taking a kindly interest in
what she said. This, too, was strange, and a friendly smile became fixed
upon her face, and of those who saw it--shop-girls, women of fashion,
coachmen, clubmen, policemen--most felt a little warmth about their
hearts; it was pleasant to see on the lips of that faded lady with the
silvered arching hair under a hat whose brim turned down all round.

So Mrs. Pendyce came to Piccadilly and turned westward towards George's
club. She knew it well, for she never failed to look at the windows when
she passed, and once--on the occasion of Queen Victoria's Jubilee--had
spent a whole day there to see that royal show.

She began to tremble as she neared it, for though she did not, like the
Squire, torture her mind with what might or might not come to pass, care
had nested in her heart.

George was not in his club, and the porter could not tell her where he
was. Mrs. Pendyce stood motionless. He was her son; how could she ask
for his address? The porter waited, knowing a lady when he saw one. Mrs.
Pendyce said gently:

"Is there a room where I could write a note, or would it be----"

"Certainly not, ma'am. I can show you to a room at once."

And though it was only a mother to a son, the porter preceded her
with the quiet discretion of one who aids a mistress to her lover; and
perhaps he was right in his view of the relative values of love, for he
had great experience, having lived long in the best society.

On paper headed with the fat white "Stoics' Club," so well known on
George's letters, Mrs. Pendyce wrote what she had to say. The little
dark room where she sat was without sound, save for the buzzing of a
largish fly in a streak of sunlight below the blind. It was dingy in
colour; its furniture was