ON Friday afternoon at half-past two Barnabas took Pippa to feed the monkeys and other animals at the Zoological Gardens. It was by Miss Mason’s special request.  
During the time that elapsed between their departure and four o’clock Miss Mason was distinctly restless. She began to sew at some fine white cambric into which she was putting her most beautiful stitches. When she had returned from Hope, Bridget had told her of a Secret that was to arrive in the spring—a secret which if it was a boy was to be called Oliver, but Bridget hoped it would be Olive. She and Jasper were beamingly happy.
 
Miss Mason put in a few stitches, but she found it impossible to sit still. She dropped the work into a basket, got up from her chair, and began to walk up and down the room. Then she would suddenly sit down and begin to sew again.
 
“I’m an old fool,” she said. “I can no more help interfering than I can help breathing, and yet I’m as nervous as a cat.” And she began to watch the clock anxiously.
 
 
It had just chimed the hour in its silvery tone when Sally opened the door.
 
“The Duchessa di Corleone,” she said. She had learnt the name by now.
 
Sara came into the room. She was in a dark blue dress, and because the day was keen, though bright, she was wrapped in dark sable furs.
 
“My dear,” said Miss Mason, “I am quite delighted to see you. Sally, bring tea.”
 
Sara sat down and loosened her furs. Miss Mason looked at her. Her face was paler than even its usual worry warranted. It had lost the under-glow of warmth, and her eyes looked dark and sad.
 
“Did you have a good time in Devonshire?” she asked.
 
“Delightful,” said Miss Mason. “A few people grinned fatuously when they saw my old figure skipping over the rocks. But I said to myself, ‘The Duchessa wouldn’t see anything to laugh at,’ and so I didn’t care.”
 
Sara smiled. “You still remember our conversation long ago?”
 
“I’ve never forgotten it,” said Miss Mason emphatically. “I fancy if I had not seen you that evening I should have given up all my dreams and have gone back to the old house for the rest of my life. And what a lot I should have missed if I had.”
 
“And what a lot a great many people would have missed,” said Sara. “You’ve woven yourself into a good many lives. Why, dozens of babies would have been minus white woolly jackets, while several bigger babies would have lost a good deal of happiness.”
 
“Nice of you to say so,” said Miss Mason. And she began to pour out tea.
 
For the next twenty minutes they talked of little things—the visit to Devonshire, the donkey-tour, the flat Aurora and Alan had taken, and Pippa at present feeding the animals at the Zoo. Sara talked lightly and even gaily. As Barnabas had said, she was a good actress. It was not till the meal was finished, then Miss Mason spoke on the subject of her heart.
 
“My dear,” she then said suddenly, “what is the matter?”
 
Sara flushed. “I can’t talk about it,” she said. She made no attempt at denial.
 
“I don’t really want you to tell me,” said Miss Mason, “because I know. But I think I can find a way out of the difficulty.”
 
Sara gave a little sad laugh. “If you can you are clever. I’ve thought and thought, and can see none.”
 
Miss Mason coughed. “It’s all perfectly simple, really,” she said, “only I don’t quite know how to begin to tell you. It seems to me that money is the most difficult thing in the world to talk about.” She took two envelopes from the table. “Will you, my dear, read the contents of those. It seems to me the simplest way.”
 
Sara took the envelopes—long ones—and drew out the parchment contents. She read slowly. At first she could hardly grasp their meaning, it had been so unexpectedly presented to her.
 
At last she looked up. Her face was quivering.
 
“But—but—I simply couldn’t——”
 
“But, my dear, why not?” said Miss Mason. “Will you look at the whole thing reasonably. If............