“This is very interesting.”  Nan lit another cigarette.  “It seems that I’ve been a boon all round as a town topic—­to London, to Rome and to St. Mary’s Bay....  Well, what did he advise about me?”

Mrs. Hilary remembered vaguely and in part, but did not think it would be profitable just now to tell Nan.

“We have to be very wise about this,” she said, collecting herself.  “Very wise and firm.  Lawlessness....  I wonder if you remember, Nan, throwing your shoes at my head when you were three?”

“No.  But I can quite believe I did.  It was the sort of thing I used to do.”

“Think back, Nan.  What is the first act of naughtiness and disobedience you remember, and what moved you to it?”

Nan, who knew a good deal more about psycho-analysis than Mrs. Hilary did, laughed curtly.

“No good, mother.  That won’t work on me.  I’m not susceptible to the treatment.  Too hard-headed.  What was Mr. Cradock’s next brain-wave?”

“Oh well, if you take it like this, what’s the use....”

“None at all.  I advise you not to bother yourself.  It will only make your headache worse....  Now I think after all this excitement you had better go and lie down, don’t you?  I’m going out, anyhow.”

Then Stephen Lumley knocked at the door and came in.  A tall, slouching hollow-chested man of forty, who looked unhappy and yet cynically amused at the world.  He had a cough, and unusually bright eyes under overhanging brows.

Nan said, “This is Stephen Lumley, mother.  My mother, Stephen,” and left them to do the rest, watching, critical and aloof, to see how they would manage the situation.

Mrs. Hilary managed it by rising from her chair and standing rigidly in the middle of the room, breathing hard and staring.  Stephen Lumley looked enquiringly at Nan.

“How do you do, Mrs. Hilary,” he said.  “I expect you’re pretty well played out by that beastly journey, aren’t you.”

Mrs. Hilary’s voice came stifled, choked, between pants.  She was working up; or rather worked up:  Nan knew the symptoms.

“You dare to come into my presence....  I must ask you to leave my daughter’s sitting-room immediately.  I have come to take her back to England with me at once.  Please go.  There is nothing that can possibly be said between you and me—­nothing.”

Stephen Lumley, a cool and quiet person, raised his brows, looked enquiry once more at Nan, found no answer, said, “Well, then, I’ll say good-bye,” and departed.

Mrs. Hilary wrung her hands together.

“How dare he!  How dare he!  Into my very presence!  He has no shame....”

Nan watched her coolly.  But a red spot had begun to burn in each cheek at her mother’s opening words to Lumley, and still burned.  Mrs. Hilary knew of old that still-burning, deadly anger of Nan’s.

“Thank you, mother.  You’ve helped me to make up my mind.  I’m going to Capri with Stephen next week.  I’ve refused up till now.  He was going without me.  You’ve made up my mind for me.  You can tell Mr. Cradock that if he asks.”