“Oh, she shouldn’t have come to Little Beeding,” she said in a low voice, staring now upon the ground.  It was to herself she spoke, but Dick answered her, and his voice rose to a challenge.

“Why shouldn’t she?  Here she was born, here she was known.  What else should she do but come back to Little Beeding and hold her head high?  I respect her pride for doing it.”

Here were reasons no doubt why Stella should come back; but they did not include the reason why she had.  Dick Hazlewood was well aware of it.  He had learnt it only the afternoon before when he was with her on the river.  But he thought it a reason too delicate, of too fine a gossamer to be offered to the prosaic mind of his Aunt Margaret.  With what ridicule and disbelief she would rend it into tatters!  Reasons so exquisite were not for her.  She could never understand them.

Mrs. Pettifer abandoned her remonstrances and was for dropping the subject altogether.  But Dick was obstinate.

“You don’t know Mrs. Ballantyne, Aunt Margaret.  You are unjust to her because you don’t know her.  I want you to,” he said boldly.

“What!” cried Mrs. Pettifer.  “You actually—­Oh!” Indignation robbed her of words.  She gasped.

“Yes, I do,” continued Dick calmly.  “I want you to come one night and dine at Little Beeding.  We’ll persuade Mrs. Ballantyne to come too.”

It was a bold move, and even in his eyes it had its risks for Stella.  To bring Mrs. Pettifer and her together was, so it seemed to him, to mix earth with delicate flame.  But he had great faith in Stella Ballantyne.  Let them but meet and the earth might melt—­who could tell?  At the worst his aunt would bristle, and there were his father and himself to see that the bristles did not prick.

“Yes, come and dine.”

Mrs. Pettifer had got over her amazement at her nephew’s audacity.  Curiosity had taken its place—­curiosity and fear.  She must see this woman for herself.

“Yes,” she answered after a pause.  “I will come.  I’ll bring Robert too.”

“Good.  We’ll fix up a date and write to you.  Goodbye.”

Dick went back to Little Beeding and asked for his father.  The old gentleman added to his other foibles that of a collector.  It was the only taste he had which was really productive, for he owned a collection of miniatures, gathered together throughout his life, which would have realised a fortune if it had been sold at Christie’s.  He kept it arranged in cabinets in the library and Dick found him bending over one of the drawers and rearranging his treasures.

“I have seen Aunt Margaret,” he said.  “She will meet Stella here at dinner.”

“That will be splendid,” cried the old man with enthusiasm.

“Perhaps,” replied his son; and the next morning the Pettifers received their invitation.