It came to her with a sudden flash of childish insight that, in the new, inexorable cry of her sex, the Usefulness of the Individual was being carelessly swept aside for the dangerous Power of the Mass.
She had reached by now the second floor, immersed in her sombre thoughts, when she heard the front door open and paused to lean over the rail.
"That you, darling?" she called down—"it's so late—I was getting anxious."
She checked the impulse to retrace her steps as she saw below the shadow of Stephen.
Slowly toiling up the stairs, Mrs. Uniacke appeared, with a worn face where dark circles heightened the brilliance of her eyes.
"Oh, Mother—how tired you look!—and wet through..." Jill's hands ran with anxious fondness over the coat that shrouded the fragile form.
The older woman smiled feebly.
"I've had a hard day, Jill." She kissed her daughter's fresh cheek and moved on shakily into the bedroom.
"What luxury!"—her thin hands went out to the cheerful blaze—"did you tell Lizzie to light it, dear?"
"Yes. I washed my head, you see," Jill explained, "and I thought—it's so cold to-night—I could dry it here by your fire and then it would warm your room for you."