g's failure to meet
his adherents at Aldershot.

The room grew dark to Carey, and seemed to whir around him; the other
men saw his face grow deadly white and his lips close firmly. He did
not seem to notice them, but he pulled his hat over his eyes and
staggered from the room.

"God!" said one of the men. "I believe that Carey was the only man in
England who didn't know what a woman his wife was. What do you suppose
he will do?"

"Heaven knows," said a second. "But, I say, boys, let's have a drink."

Carey found in the office that there was time to catch the next mail
steamer from Liverpool for Boston if he rushed to the next train.

"The cursed scoundrel spoke the truth," he said to himself, "but I hope
that I have crushed his head, just the same; and now I shall be in
America in five days--and then--" He looked out at the landscape
whirling by the windows of the railway carriage and set his teeth.

CHAPTER XVII.

AT THE COURT OF ST. JAMES.

The news of the arrival of Mrs. Oswald Carey in Boston caused some
flutter in social circles. Her precise relations to the exiled King
became at once a subject for speculation. Men of the world, with a taste
for scandal, shrugged their shoulders and laughed knowingly. Charitably
disposed people, who did not believe in bothering their heads about
their neighbors' affairs, preferred to give her the benefit of the
doubt. The serious question was whether society ought to open its doors
to her. Her reputation as a beauty had preceded her. The American public
had long been familiar with her fascinating face. Should she be welcomed
as a sister or treated to the cold shoulder, which the world regards as
the due of Mary Magdalene?

Girls settle everything in America. Two married women and a maiden met
to discuss the propriety of inviting Mrs. Oswald Carey to five o'clock
tea. One of them brought the particulars of her life vouched for by the
most charming attaches of the court. Her career had been peculiarly sad.
She was the victim of a most affecting romance. The man whom she loved
with all the passion of which woman is capable had discarded her for
another. She had been left poor and friendless. She had supported
herself by painting china and by the pittance derived from the sale of
her photographs, the last not of course quite the thing, but pardonable
under the circumstances. Then, and not until then, she might have been
somewhat unconventional.

"Girls," exclaimed