“Oh, Mrs. Westall, how beautiful it was!” Una fixed her with large limpid eyes.  “You believe it all, I suppose?” she asked with seraphic gravity.

“All—­what, my dear child?”

The girl shone on her.  “About the higher life—­the freer expansion of the individual—­the law of fidelity to one’s self,” she glibly recited.

Mrs. Westall, to her own wonder, blushed a deep and burning blush.

“My dear Una,” she said, “you don’t in the least understand what it’s all about!”

Miss Van Sideren stared, with a slowly answering blush.  “Don’t you, then?” she murmured.

Mrs. Westall laughed.  “Not always—­or altogether!  But I should like some tea, please.”

Una led her to the corner where innocent beverages were dispensed.  As Julia received her cup she scrutinized the girl more carefully.  It was not such a girlish face, after all—­definite lines were forming under the rosy haze of youth.  She reflected that Una must be six-and-twenty, and wondered why she had not married.  A nice stock of ideas she would have as her dower!  If they were to be a part of the modern girl’s trousseau—­

Mrs. Westall caught herself up with a start.  It was as though some one else had been speaking—­a stranger who had borrowed her own voice:  she felt herself the dupe of some fantastic mental ventriloquism.  Concluding suddenly that the room was stifling and Una’s tea too sweet, she set down her cup, and looked about for Westall:  to meet his eyes had long been her refuge from every uncertainty.  She met them now, but only, as she felt, in transit; they included her parenthetically in a larger flight.  She followed the flight, and it carried her to a corner to which Una had withdrawn—­one of the palmy nooks to which Mrs. Van Sideren attributed the success of her Saturdays.  Westall, a moment later, had overtaken his look, and found a place at the girl’s side.  She bent forward, speaking eagerly; he leaned back, listening, with the depreciatory smile which acted as a filter to flattery, enabling him to swallow the strongest doses without apparent grossness of appetite.  Julia winced at her own definition of the smile.

On the way home, in the deserted winter dusk, Westall surprised his wife by a sudden boyish pressure of her arm.  “Did I open their eyes a bit?  Did I tell them what you wanted me to?” he asked gaily.

Almost unconsciously, she let her arm slip from his.  “What I wanted—?”

“Why, haven’t you—­all this time?” She caught the honest wonder of his tone.  “I somehow fancied you’d rather blamed me for not talking more openly—­before—­You’ve made me feel, at times, that I was sacrificing principles to expediency.”

She paused a moment over her reply; then she asked quietly:  “What made you decide not to—­any longer?”

She felt again the vibration of a faint surprise.  “Why—­the wish to please you!” he answered, almost too simply.