amby achieved composure, and hammer in hand
she went to admit her visitors.

One swift glance she ventured, and in Paul's eyes she read that which
none could have deduced from his manner. The shameful phantom which had
pursued her so long had not been illusory; the photographs taken by Sir
Jacques had survived him. Paul had seen them. Momentarily she almost
hated him, and she found a savage and painful satisfaction in the
discovery that there was something in his nature less than godlike. It
should be easy to forget a man capable of believing that of her which
Paul believed. She longed to hide herself from his sight. But almost
with his first word of charming greeting came the old joy of hearing him
speak, the old foolish sense of inferiority, of helpless gladness.
Flamby even ceased to resist it, but she noted that Don was more silent
than usual; and once in his grey eyes she detected a look almost of
sadness. In the very charm of Paul's unchanged manner there lay a sting,
for if he had cared he could not have believed that which Flamby was
convinced he did believe and have dismissed the matter thus. But, of
course, he did not care.

"Why should he care?" she asked aloud, when again she found herself
alone. "He is just sorry that I am not a good girl. Dad saved the life
of his dearest friend, and therefore he considers it his duty to be kind
to me. But that is all."

In vain Flamby sought to reason with her unreasonable heart. What did
she desire?--that Paul should love her? A hot flush crept all over her
body. That his wife should die? Oh! what a coldly merciless thing was
logic! Flamby at this point discovered that she had been weeping for
quite a long time. She was very sorry for herself indeed; and
recognising this in turn she began to laugh, perhaps rather
hysterically. She was laughing when Mrs. Chumley came to look for her,
nor could she stop.

"Whatever are you laughing about, dear? Has Don been telling you one of
his ridiculous stories?"

"No. I just thought of a silly trifling thing, and began to laugh and
couldn't leave off."

"Quite understand, dear. I've been like that. I once began laughing in
the Tube; so unfortunate. And a man sitting opposite became really
annoyed. He had a very odd nose, you see, and he thought I was laughing
at it. I could see he thought so, which made me laugh all the more. I
had to get out at the next station, dear. Most ridiculous, because I
wasn't laughing at the poor man