had looked up into his bearded face, and met his
heavy-lidded eyes resting on her bright young face,
with a half-smile of indulgent amusement at her look
of radiant interest and happiness.

This vivid recollection of that long-forgotten Victorian
"crush" had a good effect on Mary Otway. It
calmed her nervous tremor, and made her feel, in a
curious sense, at home in that great London house.

Running round the top of the staircase was a narrow
way where girls sitting at typewriters were busily
working. But they had all kind, intelligent faces, and
they all seemed anxious to help and speed her on her
way.

"Mrs. Vereker? Oh yes, you'll find her at once
if you go along that gallery and open the door at the
end."

She walked through into a vast room where a
domed and painted ceiling now looked down on a
very curious scene. With the exception of some large
straight settees, all the furniture which had once been
in this great reception-room had been cleared away.
In its place were large office tables, plain wooden
chairs, and wire baskets piled high with letters and
memoranda. The dozen or so people there were all
intent on work of some sort, and though now and
again some one got up and walked across to ask a
question of a colleague, there was very little coming
or going. Personal inquirers generally came early in
the day.

As she stood just inside the door, Mary Otway
knew that it was here, twenty years ago, that she had
seen the principal guests gathered together. She recalled
the intense interest, the awe, the sympathy with

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v?