An hour or so later Mrs. Phillimore departed in a hired brougham.  Her hair had been carefully arranged by a local expert who had an establishment in the next street, her pink silk gown had come through the ordeal of cleansing with remarkable success, and the heels on her new evening shoes resembled more than anything else, miniature stilts.  Her face was wreathed in smiles, and she possessed the good conscience and light heart of a woman who feels that she has made a successful toilette.  All the vague misgivings of a short while ago had vanished.  She gave her hair a final touch in the side window of the carriage as she drove off, and quite forgot to wave her hand to Hester, who was standing at the window to see her go.  If any misgivings remained at all between the two, they were not with her.  She settled herself back amongst the cushions with a little sigh of content.  Sir Leslie was a most charming person, and evidently not at all insensible to her charms.  She was sure that she was going to have a delightful evening.

* * * * *

Borrowdean, if he possessed no conscience, was not altogether free from some kindred eccentricity.  He was reminded sharply enough of the fact about one o’clock the next morning, when the door of the little house on Merton Street was suddenly opened before he could touch the bell.  Framed in a little slanting gleam of light, Hester, still wearing her plain black gown, stood and looked at him.  His careless words of explanation died away upon his lips.  The fire which flashed from her hollow eyes seemed to wither up the very sources of speech within him.  The half lights were kind to her.  He saw nothing of the hollow cheeks.  The weariness of her pose and manner had passed like magic away.  She stood there, erect as a dart, her head thrown back, a curious mixture of scorn, of loathing, and of fear in her expression.  She looked at him steadily, and he felt his cheeks burn.  He was ashamed—­ashamed of himself, ashamed of his errand.

“Your mother,” he said, struggling to look away from her, “is—­a little unwell.  The heat of the room—­”

She swept down the steps and passed him.  Before he could reach her side she was tugging at the handle of the carriage door.

“Mother,” she cried, through the window, “undo the door!”

But Mrs. Phillimore made no answer.  When at last the door was opened she was discovered half asleep in a corner.  Her hair was in some disorder, and her cheeks no longer preserved that even colouring which is a result of the artistic use of the rouge-pot.  Her head was thrown back, and she was apparently asleep.  Hester stifled a sob.  She took her mother by the arm, and shook her.

Mrs. Phillimore sat up and smiled a sleepy smile.  She made a few incoherent remarks.  They helped her into the house and into an easy-chair, where she promptly turned her face towards the cushions and resumed her slumber.  Sir Leslie moved towards the door, then hesitated.