Miss Burnaby spoke very simply, but there was a note of deep sadness in her voice, and Blanche told herself that she had been wrong in regarding her as simply a dull, conventional, greedy old woman.

“I’m very sorry now that I allowed Bubbles to do it,” she exclaimed.  “I’m afraid it upset your brother, too, very much?”

Again there came a curious change over Miss Burnaby’s face.  She hesitated perceptibly—­and then answered:  “I would not say so to any of the younger people here, of course.  But, as a matter of fact, my brother had a very unpleasant experience as a young man.  He fell in love, or thought he fell in love, with a young woman.  It was a very unfortunate and tragic affair—­for, Miss Farrow, the unhappy young person killed herself!  I was very young at the time, and I was not supposed to know anything about it.  But of course I did know.  Poor Ted had to give evidence at the inquest.  It was dreadful, dreadful!  We have never spoken of it all these many years we have lived together.  You realize, Miss Farrow, that the young person was not in our class of life?”—­the old lady drew herself up stiffly.

Blanche felt much relieved when, at that moment Bubbles appeared.  She made a delightful, brilliant, Goya-like picture, in her yellow jumper and long chain of coral beads.  But she looked very tired.

“Have all the others gone out?” she asked languidly.  And before Blanche could answer, Miss Burnaby, murmuring something about having letters to write, quickly left the room.  The sight of the girl affected her painfully; but it also intensified her longing for what she had heard called “a private sitting.”

“Lionel is showing Miss Brabazon over the house.  She’s very much thrilled over Pegler’s experience.  I can’t make that girl out—­can you, Bubbles?”

Miss Farrow drew nearer to the fire.  “She’s such a queer mixture of shrewdness and simplicity,” she went on.  “She doesn’t seem ever to have gone anywhere, or seen anyone, and yet she’s so—­so mature!  I believe she’s exactly your age.”

“I feel about a hundred to-day,” said Bubbles wearily.

Blanche was wondering how she could open on the subject about which she’d promised to speak to the girl.  Somehow she always very much disliked speaking to Bubbles of what she called, in her own mind, “all that unhealthy rot and nonsense!” And yet she must say something—­she had promised Lionel Varick to do so.

Bubbles’ next words gave her no opening.

“I have no use for Helen Brabazon,” she said pettishly.  “A very little of her would bore me to death.  But still, I amused myself at dinner last night thinking what I should do if I had all her money.”

“All her money?” repeated Blanche, puzzled.

“Don’t you know that she’s one of the richest girls in England?”

“Is that really true?”—­Blanche felt surprised, and more than surprised, keenly interested.  “How d’you know, Bubbles?  Lionel never told me—.”