The anxious expression still remained on Miss Lavinia’s face,—­ but, true to the instincts of an old-fashioned gentlewoman, she did not press enquiries where she saw they might be embarrassing or unwelcome.  And though she now loved Innocent as much as if she had been her own child, she never failed to remember that after all, the girl had earned her own almost wealthy independence, and was free to do as she liked without anybody’s control or interference, and that though she was so young she was bound to be in all respects untrammelled in her life and actions.  She went where she pleased—­she had her own little hired motor-brougham—­ she also had many friends who invited her out without including Miss Leigh in the invitations, and she was still the “paying guest” at the little Kensington house,—­a guest who was never tired of doing kindly and helpful deeds for the benefit of the sweet old woman who was her hostess.  Once or twice Miss Leigh had made a faint half-hearted protest against her constant and lavish generosity.

“My dear,” she had said—­“With all the money you earn now you could live in a much larger house—­you could indeed have a house of your own, with many more luxuries—­why do you stay here, showering advantages on me, who am nothing but a prosy old body?—­ you could do much better!”

“Could I really?” And Innocent had laughed and kissed her.  “Well!  —­I don’t want to do any better—­I’m quite happy as I am.  One thing is—­(and you seem to forget it!)—­that I’m very fond of you!—­and when I’m very fond of a person it’s difficult to shake me off!”

So she stayed on—­and lived her life with a nun-like simplicity and economy—­spending her money on others rather than herself, and helping those in need,—­and never even in her dress, which was always exquisite, running into vagaries of extravagance and follies of fashion.  She had discovered a little French dressmaker, whose husband had deserted her, leaving her with two small children to feed and educate, and to this humble, un-famous plier of the needle she entrusted her wardrobe with entirely successful results.  Worth, Paquin, Doucet and other loudly advertised personages were all quoted as “creators” of her gowns, whereat she was amused.

“A little personal taste and thought go so much further in dress than money,” she was wont to say to some of her rather envious women friends.  “I would rather copy the clothes in an old picture than the clothes in a fashion book.”

Odd fancies about her dead mother came to her when she was alone in her own room—­particularly at night when she said her prayers.  Some mysterious force seemed compelling her to offer up a petition for the peace of her mother’s soul,—­she knew from the old books written by the “Sieur Amadis” that to do this was a custom of his creed.  She missed it out of the Church of England Prayer-book, though she dutifully followed the tenets of the faith in which Miss Leigh had had her baptised and confirmed—­but in her heart of hearts she thought it good and right to pray for the peace of departed souls—­