small world--whether it
were a crack across the insipid china face of a favourite doll or the
death of an adored Persian kitten--there was still balm in Gilead if
_"petite maman"_ would but dance for her. The tears shining in big drops
on her cheeks, her small chest still heaving with the sobs that were
a passionate protest against unkind fate, Magda would sit on the floor
entranced, watching with adoring eyes every swift, graceful motion of
the dancer, and murmuring in the quaint shibboleth of French and English
she had imbibed from old Virginie.

On one of these occasions Hugh came upon the two unexpectedly and
brought the performance to a summary conclusion.

"That will do, Diane," he said icily. "I should have thought you would
have had more self-respect than to dance--in that fashion--in front of a
child."

"It is, then, a sin to dance--as it is to be married?" demanded Diane
bitterly, abruptly checked in an exquisite spring-flower dance of her
own invention.

"I forbid it; that is sufficient," replied Hugh sternly.

His assumption of arrogant superiority was unbearable. Diane's
self-control wavered under it and broke. She turned and upbraided him
despairingly, alternately pleading and reproaching, battering all her
slender forces uselessly against his inflexible determination.

"This is a waste of time, Diane--mine, anyway," he told her. And left
her shaken with grief and anger.

Driven by a sense of utter revolt, she stormed her way to Catherine, who
was composedly sorting sheets in the linen room.

"I will not bear it!" she burst out at her furiously. "What have I done
that I should be treated as an outcast--a pariah?"

Catherine regarded the tense, quivering little figure with chill
dislike.

"You married my brother," she replied imperturbably.

"And you have separated us! But for you, we should be happy together--he
and baby and I! But you have spoilt it all. I suppose"--a hint of the
Latin Quarter element in her asserting itself--"I suppose you think no
one good enough to marry into your precious family!"

Catherine paused on her way to the cupboard, a pile of fine linen
pillowslips in her hands.

"Yes," she said quietly. "It is I who have separated you--spoilt your
happiness, if you like. And I am glad of it. I can't expect anyone like
you to understand"--there was the familiar flavour of disparagement in
her tones--"but I am thankful that my brother has seen the wickedness of
his marriage w