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“I quite understand that it would be more convenient for you to assist Mrs. Langham’s committee—it will have charge in your district—but we are all in need of willing helpers, and———.”

Mrs. Langham, who for years had angled in vain for an invitation to the Warburton home, saw that the moment was pregnant with possibilities. She must rise or fall on an instant decision.

She decided to rise, no matter the cost to her peculiar pride.

She sprang to her feet abruptly, toppling her husband into a seat and smashing his precious bottle.

“I—I’m so sorry, Miss Weybourn,” she apologised, dabbing her lined cheeks, from which the powder bloom had departed. “I had no right to speak as I did. I—we are all very much upset by this terrible catastrophe, and we are not responsible for our hasty words. Mr. Warburton is quite right. This is no time for quarrelling over anything, especially over such trivial—ah—imaginary trifles. Please forgive me?”

“Does that mean that my committee is not to have Miss Weybourn’s assistance?” asked Mr. Warburton, smiling at the repentant lady.

“I’m sorry, my dear Mr. Warburton,” answered Mrs. Langham, with a fond glance at Patricia, whose ironical expression chafed her almost unbearably. “We cannot spare her.”

She glanced at No. 2 Committee, whose expression did not bear her out in this. She was not dismayed.

“I can’t tell you how humiliated I feel,” she continued, with a catch in her voice. “I cannot imagine how I came to be so—so———.”

She reached out and clasped Patricia’s nearest hand.

“You will help us?” she pleaded, smiling through the tears which she could command at will. “And you will forgive me?”