n sight, a hiding of treasures which did not please the owner.

"Well," she said deliberately once more, "I guess it was a real cruel
trick. Whatever he'd done, she put herself in the wrong that time. The
poor fellow's not done a mite of good ever since."

I had to hold myself tight to prevent a start. _Not done_! She talked
of the man in the present case, as though he were alive, as though--
stupefying thought!--_Charmion was not a widow after all_! The thought
was stupefying, but even as it passed through my brain, I realised that
no word of her own had been responsible for my conviction that her
husband was dead. It was rather because she never _did_ mention him
that Kathie and I had made so sure that he did not exist. My thoughts
dived into the past, recalling faded impressions. I remembered how
Kathie had said, "She must have loved him dreadfully not to be able to
refer to him even now!" And how I had been silent, fighting the
impression that it was the ghost of sorrow, rather than of joy, which
sealed Charmion's lips.

The door opened, and the men came into the room. The different groups
broke up and drifted here and there; into the palm-house to look at the
flowers, back into the drawing-room to talk, drink coffee, and glance
surreptitiously at the clock. In this old-fashioned household, no one
thought of providing any other amusement for a dinner party than the
dinner itself. Having been well fed, the guests were expected to amuse
themselves for the hour that remained. In an ordinary way I could have
taken my share in the amusing; I like talking, and am never troubled by
not knowing what to say. Given people to listen, and look appreciative,
I can monologue for an indefinite time. But--to-night!

Inside the palm-house I could see Charmion's grey figure reclining in a
wicker chair, her face ivory-white against the cushions. She was waving
her fan to and fro, and listening with apparent attention to the
conversation of her companions. I guessed how little she would hear;
how bitter must be the dread at her heart; how endlessly, interminably
long the moments must seem.

"Miss Wastneys, would you care to see the picture we were talking about
at dinner?"

It was Mr Maplestone's voice. I looked up and saw him standing by my
side, and rose at once, thankful for any movement which would pass the
time. We left the room together, walked to the end of the long
corridor, and drew up before the pictu