a suddenly; "he's gone."

Shelton saw that their good breeding alone prevented all from adding,
"And thank goodness, too!"

"Gone? Dear me, it's very--"

"Yes," said Mr. Dennant, "very sudden."

"Now, Algie," murmured Mrs. Dennant, "it 's quite a charmin' letter.
Must have taken the poor young man an hour to write."

"Oh, mother!" cried Antonia.

And Shelton felt his face go crimson. He had suddenly remembered that
her French was better than her mother's.

"He seems to have had a singular experience," said the Connoisseur.

"Yes," echoed Mr. Dennant; "he 's had some singular experience. If you
want to know the details, ask friend Shelton; it's quite romantic. In
the meantime, my dear; another cup?"

The Connoisseur, never quite devoid of absent-minded malice, spurred his
curiosity to a further effort; and, turning his well-defended eyes on
Shelton, murmured,

"Well, Mr. Shelton, you are the historian, it seems."

"There is no history," said Shelton, without looking up.

"Ah, that's very dull," remarked the Connoisseur.

"My dear Dick," said Mrs. Dennant, "that was really a most touchin'
story about his goin' without food in Paris."

Shelton shot another look at Antonia; her face was frigid. "I hate your
d---d superiority!" he thought, staring at the Connoisseur.

"There's nothing," said that gentleman, "more enthralling than
starvation. Come, Mr Shelton."

"I can't tell stories," said Shelton; "never could."

He cared not a straw for Ferrand, his coming, going, or his history;
for, looking at Antonia, his heart was heavy.

CHAPTER XXX

THE LADY FROM BEYOND

The morning was sultry, brooding, steamy. Antonia was at her music, and
from the room where Shelton tried to fix attention on a book he could
hear her practising her scales with a cold fury that cast an added gloom
upon his spirit. He did not see her until lunch, and then she again
sat next the Connoisseur. Her cheeks were pale, but there was something
feverish in her chatter to her neighbour; she still refused to look at
Shelton. He felt very miserable. After lunch, when most of them had left
the table, the rest fell to discussing country neighbours.

"Of course," said Mrs. Dennant, "there are the Foliots; but nobody calls
on them."

"Ah!" said the Connoisseur, "the Foliots--the Foliots--the
people--er--who--quite so!"

"It's really distressin'; she looks so sweet ridin' about. Many people
with worse stories get called on," contin