'Certainly head him back if you like and can, darling. I don't suppose
Babs wants him, anyhow.'

'That is just it. If Jane did, I shouldn't interfere. Her happiness is
as dear to me as Clare's, naturally. But Jane is not susceptible; she
has a colder temperament; and she is often quite rude to Oliver Hobart.
Look how different their views about everything are. He and Clare agree
much better.'

'Very well, mother. You're the doctor. I'll do my best not to throw them
together when next Hobart comes over. But we must leave the children to
settle their affairs for themselves. If he really wants fat little Babs
we can't stop him trying for her.'

'Life is difficult,' Lady Pinkerton sighed. 'My poor little Clare is
looking like a wilted flower.'

'Poor little girl. M'm yes. Poor little girl. Well, well, we'll see what
can be done.... I'll see if I can take Janet home for a bit, perhaps--get
her out of the way. She's very useful to me here, though. There are no
flies on Jane. She's got the Potter wits all right.'

But Lady Pinkerton loved better Clare, who was like a flower, Clare, whom
she had created, Clare, who might have come--if any girl could have
come--out of a Leila Yorke novel.

'I shall say a word to Jane,' Lady Pinkerton decided. 'Just to
sound her.'

But, after all, it was Jane who said the word. She said it that evening,