ook it for my country."

Her eyes were open, and her garden had been invaded by those
revolutionaries of life and time, Nemesis, Penalty, Remorse. They
marauded every sacred and secret corner of her mind and soul. They came
with whips to scourge her. Nothing was private to her inner self now.
Everything was arrayed against her. All life doubled backwards on her,
blocking her path.

M. Mennaval--what did she care for him! Yet here he was at her door
asking payment for the merchandise he had sold to her: his judgment,
his reputation as a diplomatist, his freedom, the respect of the
world--for how could the world respect a man at whom it laughed, a man
who had hoped to be given the key to a secret door in a secret garden!

As Jasmine sat looking at the card, the footman entered again with a
note.

"His Excellency's compliments," he said, and withdrew.

She opened the letter hesitatingly, held it in her hand for a moment
without reading it, then, with an impulsive effort, did so. When she
had finished, she gave a cry of anger and struck her tiny clinched hand
upon her knee.

The note ran:

"Chere amie, you have so much indisposition in these days. It is all
too vexing to your friends. The world will be surprised, if you allow a
migraine to come between us. Indeed, it will be shocked. The world
understands always so imperfectly, and I have no gift of explanation.
Of course, I know the war has upset many, but I thought you could not
be upset so easily--no, it cannot be the war; so I must try and think
what it is. If I cannot think by tomorrow at five o'clock, I will call
again to ask you. Perhaps the migraine will be better. But, if you will
that migraine to be far away, it will fly, and then I shall be near. Is
it not so? You will tell me to-morrow at five, will you not, belle amie?

"A toi, M. M."

The words scorched her eyes. They angered her, scourged her. One of
life's Revolutionaries was insolently ravaging the secret place where
her pride dwelt. Pride--what pride had she now? Where was the room for
pride or vanity? ... And all the time she saw the face of a dead man
down by the river--a face now beneath the sod. It flashed before her
eyes at moments when she least could bear it, to agitate her soul.

M. Mennaval--how dare he write to her so! "Chere amie" and "A toi"--how
strange the words looked now, how repulsive and strange! It did not
seem possible that once before he had written such words to her. B