They curved now as she looked up from her note.  “Well, daughter?” She had sealed the note and laid it one side.  “Was it a good lesson?” She leaned back in her chair, stroking the child’s hand softly, while her eyes travelled over the quaint, dignified little figure.  The child was a Velasquez—­people had often remarked it, and the mother had taken the note that gave to her clothes the regal air touched with simplicity.  “So it was a good lesson, was it?” she repeated, absently, as she stroked the small dark hand—­her own figure graciously outlined as she leaned back enjoying the lifted face and straight, clear eyes.

“Mother-dear!” The child’s voice vibrated with the intensity behind it.  “I have seen a man—­a very good man!”

“Yes?” There was a little laugh in the word.  She was accustomed to the child’s enthusiasms.  Yet they were always new to her—­even the old ones were.  “Who was he, daughter—­this very good man?”

“He is a Greek, mother—­with a long, beautiful name—­I don’t think I can tell it to you.  But he is most wonderful—!” The child spread her hands and drew a deep breath.

“More wonderful than father?” It was an idle, laughing question—­while she studied the lifted-up face.

“More wonderful than father—­yes—­” The child nodded gravely.  “I can’t quite tell you, mother-dear, how it feels—­” She laid a tiny hand on her chest.  Her eyes were full of thought.  “He speaks like music, and he loves things—­oh, very much!”

“I see—­And did Madame Lewandowska introduce you to him?”

“Oh, it was not there.”  The child’s face cleared with swift thought.  “I didn’t tell you—­Madame was ill—­”

The reclining figure straightened a little in its place, but the face was still smiling.  “So you and Miss Stone—­”

“But Miss Stone is ill, mother-dear.  Did you forget her toothache?” The tone was politely reproachful.

The woman was very erect now—­her small eyes, grown wide, gazing at the child, devouring her.  “Betty!  Where have you been?” It was more a cry than a question—­a cry of dismay, running swiftly toward terror.  It was the haunting fear of her life that Betty would some day be kidnapped, as the child next door had been....  The fingers resting on the arm of the chair were held tense.

“I don’t think I did wrong, mother.”  The child was looking at her very straight, as if answering a challenge.  “You see, I walked home—­”

“Where was James?” The woman’s tone was sharp, and her hand reached toward the bell; but the child’s hand moved softly toward it.

“I’d like to tell you about it myself, please, mother.  James never waits for the lessons.  I don’t think he was to blame.”

The woman’s eyes were veiled with sudden mist.  She drew the child close.  “Tell mother about it.”

Betty Harris looked down, stroking her mother’s sleeve.  A little smile of memory held her lips.  “He was a beautiful man!” she said.