Besides, what could have put the idea into her head?  It was laughable, the presumption that she was a finished actress, capable of deceiving everyone about her.  If she had had an inkling of the truth, Joan, with every nerve on the alert, almost hoping for it, would have detected it.  She had talked with her alone the day before she had left England, and the woman had been full of hopes and projects for the future.

That picture of Mrs. Phillips, propped up against the pillows, with her make-up box upon her knees was still before her when she went to bed.  All night long it haunted her:  whether thinking or dreaming of it, she could not tell.

Suddenly, she sat up with a stifled cry.  It seemed as if a flash of light had been turned upon her, almost blinding her.

Hilda!  Why had she never thought of it?  The whole thing was so obvious.  “You ought not to think about yourself.  You ought to think only of him and of his work.  Nothing else matters.”  If she could say that to Joan, what might she not have said to her mother who, so clearly, she divined to be the incubus—­the drag upon her father’s career?  She could hear the child’s dry, passionate tones—­could see Mrs. Phillips’s flabby cheeks grow white—­the frightened, staring eyes.  Where her father was concerned the child had neither conscience nor compassion.  She had waited her time.  It was a few days after Hilda’s return to school that Mrs. Phillips had been first taken ill.

She flung herself from the bed and drew the blind.  A chill, grey light penetrated the room.  It was a little before five.  She would go round to Phillips, wake him up.  He must be told.

With her hat in her hands, she paused.  No.  That would not do.  Phillips must never know.  They must keep the secret to themselves.  She would go down and see the woman; reason with her, insist.  She went into the other room.  It was lighter there.  The “A.B.C.” was standing in its usual place upon her desk.  There was a train to Folkestone at six-fifteen.  She had plenty of time.  It would be wise to have a cup of tea and something to eat.  There would be no sense in arriving there with a headache.  She would want her brain clear.

It was half-past five when she sat down with her tea in front of her.  It was only ten minutes’ walk to Charing Cross—­say a quarter of an hour.  She might pick up a cab.  She grew calmer as she ate and drank.  Her reason seemed to be returning to her.  There was no such violent hurry.  Hadn’t she better think things over, in the clear daylight?  The woman had been ill now for nearly six weeks:  a few hours—­a day or two—­could make no difference.  It might alarm the poor creature, her unexpected appearance at such an unusual hour—­cause a relapse.  Suppose she had been mistaken?  Hadn’t she better make a few inquiries first—­feel her way?  One did harm more often than good, acting on impulse.  After all, had she the right to interfere?  Oughtn’t the thing to be thought over as a whole?  Mightn’t there be arguments, worth considering, against her interference?  Her brain was too much in a whirl.  Hadn’t she better wait till she could collect and arrange her thoughts?