whether it's a coincidence or not: a letter has just come by
the afternoon post, for Mary Grant, in his handwriting. It has an
Italian stamp, and is post-marked Ventimiglia. Probably he wrote it
yesterday, at the Chateau Lontana, knowing it wouldn't get to her till
this afternoon, as the posts from Italy are so slow."

"How strange!" George exclaimed. "Strange, and very sad."

"The letter hadn't been in the house five minutes, when Dick came in
with the news of his death."

George's eyes, which appeared always to see something mysteriously
beautiful behind people's heads, fixed themselves on vacancy that did
not seem to be vacant for him. "Hannaford was there in his house alone
yesterday, writing to Miss Grant," he murmured. "How little he thought
that when she read his letter he would be in another world."

"I wonder?" Rose whispered. "It is long after five. Mary will be coming
in soon. Then, perhaps, we shall know."

XXXI

Dick Carleton had gone before Vanno brought Mary back to the Winters'
flat. Unconsciously he was enjoying his heartbreak. It was satisfactory
to prove the depth and acuteness of his own feelings, for sometimes he
had feared that he might not be capable of a great love, a love in the
"grand manner," such as swept off their feet men in the novels and plays
which women adored. Now he believed himself to be in the throes of such
a love and was secretly proud of his passion, but the pain of seeing
Prince Vanno with Mary was rather too real, too sharp for analytical
enjoyment; and when he could, Dick avoided twisting the knife in his
wound.

Rose and George Winter had been alone together only for a few minutes,
and there had been no time to decide upon any plan of action, when Mary
and Vanno came in.

The girl was looking radiant, for in the excitement of bargaining for
land she had forgotten, not the little procession to which men lifted
their hats, but the heavy sense of impending loss it had laid upon her
heart. Rose thought that she had never seen Mary in such beauty. She
seemed to exhale happiness; and the fancy flashed through the mind of
the older woman that the girl's body was like a transparent vase filled
to its crystal brim with the wine of joy and life. To tell the news of
Hannaford's death would be to pour into the vase a dark liquid, and
cloud the opalescent wine. Still, Mary must be told, and it would be
better, safer, for her to know before she opened the letter with the