ch ended her social career as suddenly as a sentence
is ended by a period. I had been present when she told the lie, and I
was present when it was brought home to her, and I felt almost as sick
as if I had told it myself, and been caught. But she didn't turn a
hair. She just laughed and said, "Yes. I made it up. What are you
going to do about it?" Morgan Forbes, about whom the lie had been
told, was trembling so with rage that he could hardly articulate. He
said, "The next time you set foot in Newport you will be arrested and
prosecuted for criminal libel." And she knew that he meant it and that
her career was ended; still she didn't turn a hair. You couldn't help
admiring her. Sometimes I can't help wondering what has become of her.
She looked like one of those Broken Pitcher girls that Greuze painted;
and you'd no more have expected to find poison in her than in a
humming-bird.

Nor did Evelyn show any embarrassment whatever. She was sitting
cross-legged on the big living-room lounge, reading a Peter Rabbit book
to Jock and Hurry, and looking cool as a lily. She looked serene and
aloof. I could not believe that only a few hours before she had felt
that, having but one life to live, nothing mattered much one way or
another. "At least," I thought, "she'll never wish to talk the thing
over, and that's a blessing!"

Lucy, dressed for riding, was drumming on a window-pane, and looking
out into the shady, over-grown garden. I thought her expression a
little quizzical, her hand a little cool and casual, not altogether
friendly. And I was surprised to find how great an effect of
discomfort and dreariness this thought had upon me.

"Any news from the man of the house?" I asked.

"Be back Monday," she said. This was a day sooner than she had
expected him, but she spoke without any show of enthusiasm. Indeed,
she spoke a little wearily. I had never seen her face with so little
color in it. Evelyn, after a friendly nod, and a "You mustn't
interrupt," had gone on with her reading.

"Are we riding?" I said. "We don't seem to be wanted here."

"Yes," said Lucy. "Let's ride. I feel as if I hadn't exercised for a
week." She led the way to the ponies, through the garden and round the
house, almost brusquely. A Spanish bayonet pricked her in the arm, and
she made a monosyllabic exclamation in which there was more anger than
pain. Usually so gay and chattersome, she seemed now a petulant and
taciturn crea