uth, though the good lady kept up a valiant presence
in public, she was little pleased with the way things were going with
her two daughters. A year ago both had been on the wave of prosperity,
but the wave had floated them into a backwater, rather than to the haven
where she would have them be. Mary was still wandering about the
Continent, and mentioning no date for her return.

After several months in Switzerland she had crossed the frontier into
Italy, had visited Rome and Florence and Venice, and was now domiciled
in Paris. She wrote regularly once a fortnight, but her letters were
extraordinarily unenlightening. Travellers' letters are as a rule
boring in their minutiae, but Mary never attempted a word of
description. She simply gave a list of the things she had seen, with an
occasional addition of "it was very beautiful," which fact, as Mrs
Mallison tartly remarked, her readers knew without being told. She sent
home no presents as mementoes to the stay-at-homes. As a rich,
independent daughter Mary could not be considered a success.

Teresa's marriage hung fire! Mrs Mallison was a talkative woman, and
it was to her credit that even to her husband she had not allowed her
growing distrust of Dane Peignton to find vent in words. But day after
day she asked herself the same question. Since the man cared enough for
Teresa to ask her to be his wife, why did he not show a natural desire
to be married? It was no question of means, for the new agency was
sufficiently good, and included the use of a delightful house. It could
be no question of health, since he had not been laid up a day the whole
winter, and if, as was represented, his responsibility was such that he
could not spare even a week at Christmas to visit Chumley, all the more
reason that he should have a wife to look after his home! Teresa
herself appeared to accept the delay as a matter of course, but her
mother's eyes were sharp enough to see through the pretence. The girl
was unhappy; the girl was fretting; her persistent cheerfulness was a
cloak to cover a wound; when she thought herself unobserved her face
fell into weary lines. Yes! Teresa was unhappy, but with a mother's
jealous pride in a daughter's attractiveness, Mrs Mallison told herself
that, thank goodness! it hadn't spoiled the girl's good looks. She
looked thinner perhaps; a trifle older, but there was something which
added to her charm. She did not acknowledge in so many words t