entertainers became somewhat
strained.

Spoiled and petted ever since she could remember, bowed down to as a
very goddess as she grew up in her fascinating girlhood; accustomed to
the most unbounded admiration, and undivided withal, Violet Avory was
now receiving almost her first check.

It was all very well for her host to wonder "what the deuce she could
see in the fellow," the fact remained that her love for Maurice Sellon
engrossed her whole headstrong and passionate nature, and opposition
served no other purpose than to rivet her determination.

To reasoning she was deaf. All appeals to her sense of self-respect
rendered her sullen--but underlying this sullenness lurked a dogged
intensity of resolution. If ever a woman was on the road to ruin Violet
Avory was that woman, and she would be lucky did she escape the final
goal.

The days that followed were tolerably uncomfortable for all concerned.
Violet sulked. She was an adept in the art of putting on an air of
outraged innocence, and managed to make everybody supremely
uncomfortable accordingly. She kept to her room as much as she
conveniently could, and when she did venture out she shunned Marian's
companionship, taking her solitary wanderings in secluded places. Her
hostess, angered and disgusted, after one or two further attempts at
reasoning with her, fell in with her mood, and left her severely to
herself. But kind-hearted Chris--with whom she had always been a great
favourite--persisted in declaring that she was not the one to blame in
the matter--that she was rather deserving of sympathy--and he
accordingly was the only one to whom she condescended to unbend.

She was so sorry to be such a nuisance to everybody, she would say,
putting on the most winningly plaintive air for his benefit. Had she
not better go at once instead of waiting for opportunities, which might
not occur for weeks? She would be quite safe, and had no fear of
travelling by herself. She was only a "wet blanket" in the house, and
an intolerable burden--she could see that. Everybody was so strange
now--as if she had done something awful. He, Christopher, was the only
one who ever gave her a kind word, or seemed to care whether she was
alive or dead. And then out would come the daintiest little lace
handkerchief in the world, and, of course, poor old soft-hearted
Christopher felt extremely foolish--as she intended he should--and
wilder than ever with the absent Sellon, which