She nodded grimly.

“Oh, Fanny ... what?”

“Your father’s married again. You could have knocked me down with a feather.”

“But, Fanny, whom has he married?”

“You wait, my lady, and you’ll see for yourself.”

“She’s there now … at home?’

“Oh yes. Your father can’t wait to introduce you to your stepmother. He thinks everyone must be as delighted with her as he is.”

“He … delighted!”

“I’d say.”

“But … he couldn’t be delighted about anything.”

“Well, he is about this little bundle of nonsense, I can tell you.”

“Fanny, I never thought of anything like this.”

“That’s what I guessed. So I’m warning you. You had to be prepared … to my way of thinking.”

She had taken my bag and we made our way to where the carriage was waiting. When we were settled in and moving out into the streets, I said: “Fanny, when did it happen?”

“Three weeks ago.”

“He didn’t say anything about it”

“He wasn’t in the habit of sending you long explanations of what he was doing, ducky, was he?”

“But did it happen suddenly … like that?”

“Well, there was a bit of courting, I believe. He changed. One of the maids beard him singing one morning. We thought she was going up the pole when she told us. But it was true. Love’s a funny thing, Miss Harriet”

“It must be if it came to him.”

She laid her hand over mine.

“You’ll find him changed,” she warned.

“It must be for the better then,” I retorted, “because it couldn’t very well be for the worse, could it?”

I did find him changed. But when I met my stepmother I was so astonished that I could only gasp at the incongruity of this match.

As soon as we arrived at the house, Mrs. Trant came into the hall to tell me that I was to go at once to the library, where my father and Lady Delvaney were waiting for me.

As I stood on the threshold of that room, I could sense the change creeping over the house. Nothing, I thought, is going to be the same again. We have come to the end of an epoch. Lady Delvaney was sitting in an armchair by the fireplace. She was a young woman, petite, with fair, fluffy hair, a strikingly fresh complexion, round babyish face and pale blue eyes so large that they looked as though she were startled. Perhaps she was, at the sight of me. She was dressed in pink and white, and my first impression was that she was like a piece of confectionery the cook had made for one of Papa’s parties. There was a pink ribbon in her hair, and her gown was trimmed with pink and white; her face was delicately powdered; her waist was the tiniest I had ever seen, and never had the term “hourglass” been more aptly applied than to her.

But the most startling sight in that room was not this woman. It was my father. I would not have believed he could ever have looked like that. His eyes had become more blue and they were brilliant as they were when he was being witty with his political friends.

“Harriet,” he said, rising and craning towards me, he took my hand in one of his and laid the other on my shoulder— a gesture of affection which he had never before used towards me. “I want you to meet your … stepmother.”

The pretty creature covered her face with her hands and murmured: “Oh, but it sounds so dreadful.”

“Nonsense, my love,” said Father. “Harriet and you win be friends.”

She rose and lifted those big blue eyes to my face—she was considerably shorter than L “Do you think so?” she asked tremulously.

I realized that the creature was—or pretended to be—afraid of me!

“I am sure we can,” I said.

Never had I found it so easy to please my father, who was now smiling at me benignly.

“I’m so gad.”

“Hal” said my father. ”I told you you need have nothing to fear, did I not?”

“You did, Teddy, you did.”

Teddy? That was new to me. Teddy! How absolutely incongruous! But more so that he should actually like it! What miracle had this woman been able to work?

“And was I not right?”

“Teddy dear, you know you are always right”

She was dimpling, and he was smiling at her as though she were one of the wonders of the world. I felt I had stepped into one of my dreams; they appeared to be so content with each other that they were allowing some of that contentment to lap over onto me.

“You’re looking puzzled … Harriet” She spoke my name shyly.

“I had no idea… It was a surprise.”

“You didn’t warn her! Oh, Teddy, how naughty of you! And I’m really a stepmother. Fancy that Stepmothers are supposed to be such horrid creatures.”

“I am sure you will be a kind stepmother,” I said.

My father looked emotional. Could it be, I wondered, that I had never know him before?

“Thank you … Harriet.” Always the little pause before she spoke my name, as though she were frightened of using it.

“Stepmother indeed!” said my father. “You are not six years older than Harriet”

She gave one of her little pouts and said: “Well, I shall try to do my best to be a good stepmother.”

“In fact” I said, “I am too old to need a stepmother, so perhaps we could be friends instead.”

She clasped her hands ecstatically, and my father looked pleased.

“You will have time to get to know each other during Harriet’s holidays,” said my father.

“That,” she announced, “will be the greatest fun.”

When I was in my room I shut the door and looked about ft, expecting it to have changed. Here were the same four walls which had seen so much of my childhood misery; here I had come after hearing those cruel words of Aunt Clarissa and made my plans for escape; here I had often cried myself to sleep because I had believed myself to be ugly and unloved. There was the picture of the Christian Martyr, which for some reason had always frightened me when I was young. It portrayed a young woman waist high in water, bound to a stake; her hands were tied with the palms together so that she could pray, and her eyes were raised to heaven. It used to give me nightmares until Fanny explained that she was happy to die because she was dying for her faith, and it would soon be over when the tide rose, for then she would be completely submerged. There was the little bookcase with my old books which had delighted my childhood. There was the moneybox from which I had extracted the shillings and sixpences to pay my fare to Cornwall. The same room where I had been kept on a diet of bread and water as a punishment for some misdemeanor, where I had struggled to learn the collect of the day or lines from Shakespeare as penance.

The same room—but the house was different. My father’s resentment, the unhappiness of years had dropped from him —or rather it had been removed like a cloak by the delicate fingers of this frivolous-looking piece of confectionery who was my stepmother.

I studied my reflection in the dressing-table looking glass. Yes, I had changed. That little kindness my father had shown me had lifted the scowl from my brow. I promised myself that I was growing better-looking. Gwennan was right when she said I reminded people that I was unattractive because of my own attitude.

I was excited because getting to know oneself was exciting. I was beginning to believe that I had the power to influence my own personality. I saw how happiness with bis Jenny was changing him. It was a wonderful discovery.

My astonishment grew as the days passed. My father did not exactly allow me to penetrate their magic circle, but at the same tune he did not want me shut out entirely. It seemed that my acceptance of Jenny, and hers of me, was needed to make his happiness complete. I suppose the child I had been —bitter, resentful—would have refused to give him what he wanted how. But I had changed when I had put on the topaz-colored dress, when Bevil had shown clearly that he had been attracted by me. I had softened in some way; and the new Harriet had lost her vindictiveness—she wanted to please.

So I became Jenny’s friend.

Meals were different now, with William Lister and myself, Papa and his new wife. Conversation flowed more easily; neither William nor I had to worry now about making aimless remarks. Jenny did that to perfection, and all her inanities were greeted by smiles from her husband.

They often went to the theater—which was something new to my father, who had never had time for it before; but the theater had been Jenny’s life, and she loved it. Jenny would prattle through dinner about the show they had seen or were going to see and the stage personalities whom she obviously admired. Papa listened and quickly learned what she had to tell him about the different actors and actresses, so that he could aspire to her kind of conversation.

One day my father said: “I want a word with you, Harriet. Pray come into the library.”

I followed him there. He sat down and signed to me to be seated, looking at me with the cold distaste which had wounded me so deeply before Jenny’s coming. So it was only when he was with her that he felt more kindly towards me! The assurance which had grown about me like a shell was only a brittle covering and ready to crack at the least ill-usage, and the sullen expression, I knew, was creeping over my face; I felt ugly, for I was sure that he was comparing me with his exquisite little Jenny.

“I have been thinking of your education,” he said.

I nodded, and he looked at me with exasperation. “For heaven’s sake, show some enthusiasm.”

“I’m … interested,” I said.

“I should hope so. I have been thinking that it is time you left that school. You certainly need some grooming to fit you for society. Your Aunt Clarissa will see you launched eventually, but you are by no means ready for that How old are you now?”