the blinds up," he suggested.

"No, no!" she sharply commanded. "I can see quite well. I don't want any
more light."

There was the piano upon which Laurencine had played! The embrasure of
the window! The corner in which Irene had sat spellbound by Jules
Defourcambault! The portraits of Irene, at least one of which would
perpetuate her name! The glazed cases full of her collections!... The
chief pieces of furniture and all the chairs were draped in the pale,
ghostly sheeting.

Suddenly Lois, rushing to the mantelpiece, cried:

"This is what I shall take."

It was a large photograph of Jules Defourcambault, bearing the words:
"_A Miss Irene Wheeler. Hommages respectueux de_ J.D.F."

"You won't!" he exclaimed, incredulous, shocked. He thought: "She is
mad!"

"Yes, I shall."

There were hundreds of beautiful objects in the place, and she chose a
banal photograph of a despicable creature whom she detested.

"Why don't you take one of _her_ portraits? Or even a fan. What on earth
do you want with a thing like that?" His voice was changing.

"I shall take it and keep it for ever. He was the cause of it all. This
photograph was everything to her once."

George revolted utterly, and said with cold, harsh displeasure:

"You're simply being morbid. There's no sense in it."

She dropped down into a chair, and the impress of her body dragged the
dust-sheet from its gilt arms, exposing them. She put her face in her
hands and sobbed.

"You're awfully cruel!" she murmured thickly.

The sobs continued, shaking her body. She was beautifully dressed. Her
shoes were adorable, and the semi-transparent hose over her fine ankles.
She made a most disturbing, an unbearable, figure of compassion. She
needed wisdom, protection, guidance, strength. Every bit of her seemed
to appeal for these qualities. But at the same time she dismayed. He
moved nearer to her. Yes, she had grandeur. All the costly and valuable
objects in the drawing-room she had rejected in favour of the
satisfaction of a morbid and terrible whim. Who could have foreseen it?
He moved still nearer. He stood over her. He seized her yielding wrists.
He lifted her veil. Tears were running down her cheeks from the yellow
eyes. She looked at him through her tears.

"You're frightfully cruel," she feebly repeated.

"And what if I am?" he said solemnly. Did she really think him hard, had
she always thought him hard--she, the hard one? How strange! Yet no
doubt he w