“Now, mother, do come and lie down on the sofa in the drawing-room.  I see you are out of sorts.  You hardly tasted food, and you are dreadfully tired; come and rest.  I will read you to sleep.”

“No, Kate; there can be no rest for me, my darling,” returned her mother, rising, and beginning to put the plates and glasses together with a nervous movement.  “I am out of sorts, for I have had a great disappointment. The Family Friend has refused my three-volume novel, and I really have not the heart to try it anywhere else after such repeated rejections.  At the same time Skinner & Palm write to say they cannot use my short story, ‘On the Rack,’ for five or six months, as they have such a quantity of already accepted manuscripts.”

“How provoking!” cried Katherine.  “But come away; the drawing-room is cooler; let us go there and talk things over.”

Mrs. Liddell accepted the suggestion, and sank into an arm-chair, while her daughter let down the blinds, and then placed herself on a low ottoman opposite her.

There was a short silence; then Mrs. Liddell sighed and began:  “I counted so much on that short story for ready money!  Skinner always pays directly he has published.  Now I do not know what to do.  If I take it back I may fail to dispose of it, yet I cannot wait.  But the novel—­that is the worst disappointment of all.  I suppose it was foolish, but I felt sure about that.”

“Of course you did,” cried Katherine, eagerly.  “It is an excellent story.”

“It is not worse than many Santley brings out,” resumed Mrs. Liddell; “but one is no judge of one’s own work.  It was with reluctance I offered it to The Family Friend, and you see—­” her voice faltered, and she stopped abruptly.

Katherine knew the tears were in her eyes and swelling her heart.  She restrained the impulse to throw her arms round her; she feared to agitate her mother; rather she would help her self-control.

“Well, dear, I am no great judge, but I am quite sure that such a story as yours must succeed sooner or later.  So we will be patient.”

“Ah! but, Katie, the landlord and the butcher will not wait, and, my child, I have only about five pounds.  I made too sure of success for I did so well last year.  Then Madame de Corset will soon be sending in her bill for that famous dress of Ada’s, and she will want the money she lent me.”

“Then Madame de Corset must wait,” said Katherine, firmly.  “Ada is really your debtor.  Where could she live at so small a cost as with you?  Where could she be so free to run about without a thought for the children?  What has become of her?  Couldn’t she stay with Cecil on his birthday?”

“She is gone to luncheon with the Burnetts.  It is as well to keep up with them; their influence might be useful to the boys hereafter; but I do wish I could pay her.”

“I wish you could, for it would make you happier; but she really owes you ten pounds and more.”