the end of the terrible winter to which reference has been made, and
found that a mere acquaintanceship had in the meantime developed into
friendship. He could not have told when and where the great social
barrier had been surmounted and left behind. He only knew in an
indefinite way that some such change had taken place, as all such
changes do, not in intercourse, but in the intervals of absence. It is a
singular fact that we do not make our friends when they are near. The
seed of friendship and love alike is soon sown, and the best is that
which germinates in absence.

That friendship had rapidly developed into something else Paul became
aware early in the season; and, as we have seen from his conversation,
Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, innocent and guileless as she was, might with
all modesty have divined the state of his feelings had she been less
overshadowed by her widow's weeds.

She apparently had no such suspicion, for she asked Paul in all good
faith to call the next day and tell her all about Russia--"dear Russia."

"My cousin Maggie," she added, "is staying with me. She is a dear girl.
I am sure you will like her."

Paul accepted with alacrity, but reserved to himself the option of
hating Mrs. Sydney Bamborough's cousin Maggie, merely because that young
lady existed and happened to be staying in Upper Brook Street.

At five o'clock the next afternoon he presented himself at the house of
mourning, and completely filled up its small entrance-hall.

He was shown into the drawing-room, where he discovered Miss Margaret
Delafield in the act of dragging her hat off in front of the mirror over
the mantelpiece. He heard a suppressed exclamation of amused horror, and
found himself shaking hands with Mrs. Sydney Bamborough.

The lady mentioned Paul's name and her cousin's relationship in that
casual manner which constitutes an introduction in these degenerate
days. Miss Delafield bowed, laughed, and moved toward the door. She left
the room, and behind her an impression of breeziness and health, of
English girlhood and a certain bright cheerfulness which acts as a
filter in social muddy waters.

"It is very good of you to come--I was moping," said Mrs. Sydney
Bamborough. She was, as a matter of fact, resting before the work of the
evening. This lady thoroughly understood the art of being beautiful.

Paul did not answer at once. He was looking at a large photograph which
stood in a frame on the mantelpiece--the photo