Mavis did as she was bid, hardly realising the good fortune which
had so unexpectedly overtaken her.

"Telegraph office, then home," said the woman, who had, also, got
into the car.

The man touched his hat and they were off. The woman did not speak
at first, being seemingly absorbed in anxious thought. Mavis became
conscious of a vague feeling of discomfort like to when--when--she
tried to remember when this uneasy feeling had before possessed her.
She glanced at her companion; she noticed that the woman's eyes were
hard and cold; it was difficult to reconcile their expression with
the sentiments she had professed. Then the woman turned to her.

"What is your name?"

"Mavis Weston Keeves."

"My name's Hamilton; it's really West-Hamilton, but I'm known as Mrs
Hamilton. How old are you?"

"Eighteen. I'm nineteen in three months."

"Tell me more of yourself."

Mavis briefly told her story; as she finished, the car drew up at a
post-office. Mrs Hamilton scanned Mavis's face closely before
getting out.

"I shan't be a moment; it's only to someone who's coming to dinner."