“Your mother’s,” he answered. “I built them the year I came back from America and gave them to her. I thought it would interest her. Perhaps it would, if I had left her to her own ways.” One day Phillips burst into a curious laugh. They had been discussing the problem of the smallholder. Joan had put a question to him, and with a slight start he had asked her to repeat it. But it seemed she had forgotten it.!

She gave a slight start, for in their letters to one another they had been discussing this very point. It was half-past five when she sat down with her tea in front of her. It was only ten minutes’ walk to Charing Cross—say a quarter of an hour. She might pick up a cab. She grew calmer as she ate and drank. Her reason seemed to be returning to her. There was no such violent hurry. Hadn’t she better think things over, in the clear daylight? The woman had been ill now for nearly six weeks: a few hours—a day or two—could make no difference. It might alarm the poor creature, her unexpected appearance at such an unusual hour—cause a relapse. Suppose she had been mistaken? Hadn’t she better make a few inquiries first—feel her way? One did harm more often than good, acting on impulse. After all, had she the right to interfere? Oughtn’t the thing to be thought over as a whole? Mightn’t there be arguments, worth considering, against her interference? Her brain was too much in a whirl. Hadn’t she better wait till she could collect and arrange her thoughts?

“Enough for the two of them?” demanded Mr. Singleton. “Because he will want them. Now think before you speak.” “I always come prepared to these scrimmages,” she explained. “I’ve got some Hazeline in my bag. They haven’t kicked you, have they?” What about Hilda? No hope of hiding their secret from those sharp eyes. But Hilda would approve. They could trust Hilda. The child might prove helpful.