pity's sake Mrs. Palmer!" cried Brent, in a low voice.

She started. The beautiful room, the environment of luxury
and taste and comfort came back.

Gourdain interrupted and then Palmer.

The four went to the Cafe Anglais for dinner. Brent announced
that he was going to the Riviera soon to join a party of
friends. "I wish you would visit me later," said he, with a
glance that included them all and rested, as courtesy
required, upon Susan. "There's room in my villa--barely room."

"We've not really settled here," said Susan. "And we've taken
up French seriously."

"The weather's frightful," said Palmer, with a meaning glance
at her. "I think we ought to go."

But her expression showed that she had no intention of going,
no sympathy with Palmer's desire to use this excellent, easy
ladder of Brent's offering to make the ascent into secure
respectability.

"Next winter, then," said Brent, who was observing her.
"Or--in the early spring, perhaps."

"Oh, we may change our minds and come," Palmer suggested
eagerly. "I'm going to try to persuade my wife."

"Come if you can," said Brent cordially. "I'll have no one
stopping with me."

When they were alone, Palmer sent his valet away and fussed
about impatiently until Susan's maid had unhooked her dress
and had got her ready for bed. As the maid began the long
process of giving her hair a thorough brushing, he said,
"Please let her go, Susan. I want to tell you something."

"She does not know a word of English."

"But these French are so clever that they understand perfectly
with their eyes."

Susan sent the maid to bed and sat in a dressing gown brushing
her hair. It was long enough to reach to the middle of her
back and to cover her bosom. It was very thick and wavy. Now
that the scarlet was washed from her lips for the night, her
eyes shone soft and clear with no relief for their almost
tragic melancholy. He was looking at her in profile. Her
expression was stern as well as sad--the soul of a woman who
has suffered and has been made strong, if not hard.

"I got a letter from my lawyers today," he began. "It was
about that marriage. I'll read."

At the word "marriage," she halted the regular stroke of the
brush. Her eyes gazed into the mirror of the dressing table
through her reflection deep into her life, deep into the
vistas of memory. As he unfolded the letter, she leaned back
in the low chair, let her hands drop to her lap.

"'As