ously alarmed. Mrs. Clem Hodson had gone back
to Philadelphia. She had no one to consult, no one to apply to. She felt
quite helpless. Even Bourget could give her no solace. She had a weak
imagination, but it now began to trouble her. As she lay upon her sofa,
she, always feebly, imagined many things. But oftenest she saw a vague
vision of Mr. Craven and Mr. Arabian fighting a duel because of Beryl.
They were in a forest clearing near Paris in early morning. It was a
duel with revolvers, as Bourget might have described it. She saw their
buttoned-up coats, their stretched-out arms. Which did she wish to be
the victor? And which would Beryl wish to return unwounded to Paris?
Surely Mr. Arabian. He was so kind, so enticingly gentle; he had such
beautiful eyes. And yet--and at this point old Fanny's imagination
ceased to function, and something else displayed a certain amount of
energy, her knowledge of the world. What would Mr. Arabian be like as a
husband? He was charming, seductive even, caressingly sympathetic--yes,
caressingly! But--as a husband? And old Fanny felt mysteriously that
something in her recoiled from the idea of Arabian as the husband of
Beryl, whereas she could think of Mr. Craven in that situation quite
calmly. It was all very odd, and it made her very uncomfortable. It even
agitated her, and she felt her solitude keenly. There had never been
a real link between Beryl and her, and she knew it. But now she felt
herself strangely alone in the midst of perhaps threatening dangers. If
only Beryl would become frank, would speak out, would consult her, ask
her advice! But the girl was enclosed in a reserve that was flawless.
There was not a single breach in the wall. And the dark winter had
descended on London.

One evening Miss Van Tuyn felt almost desperate. Enclosed in her reserve
she longed for a confidante; she longed to talk things over, to take
counsel with someone. She had even a desire to ask for advice. But she
knew no one in London to whom she could unbosom herself. Fanny did not
count. Old Fanny was a fool and quite incapable of being useful mentally
to anyone with good brains. And to what other woman could she speak,
she, Beryl Van Tuyn, the notoriously clever, notoriously independent,
young beauty, who had always hitherto held the reins of her own destiny?
If only she could speak to a man! But there the sex question intruded
itself. No man would be impartial unless he were tremendously old. And
s