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sion had slept in him—a passion which she, Patricia Weybourn, alone had been able to awaken.

Now Grace, by her very weakness, held the lovers apart. She had won by leaving their consciences to fight for her. She had left the field, vanquished, and had become the victor by an accident; and, if she now lay dead over there, the victory could never be voided. The memory of her voice, of her gentle manner, of her calculated nobility, would ensure that Harley remain faithful to her in death as he had not been in life. Death would magnify her virtues, and falsely colour those of the woman who remained alive.

After all, one could not fight a dead friend.

But one might fight a living enemy and therein find a relief from heartache.

Mrs. Langham was Patricia Weybourn’s enemy. She was the natural enemy of all modistes, milliners and shop assistants. She was arrogant; ridiculous in her slavish following of fashions which never seemed to suit her; soulless in her bargaining; of a commanding presence when suitably corseted; loud of voice; beady of eye; tight of mouth; haughty in the presence of those of a lower social strata, and fulsome to those above her.

Patricia recalled her encounters with Mrs. Percival Quesne Langham. She recalled Mrs. Langham’s innuendoes and pryings concerning the Harleys; she recalled the lady’s wordy protest against her bill, and her threat to report the “disgraceful behaviour” of the New Plymouth manageress (who, she had reason to believe, was old enough to conduct herself with decorum in and out of business hours “if she cared to”) to the head office in Auckland. She recalled many unpleasant things about Mrs. Langham, and was grateful for a hate to indulge in this desolate hour.

She would do two worthy things simultaneously. She would perform her part in the work of relief,