had begged them to....
But she was _not_ going to be silly and panicky, she determinedly
informed that queer little catch in her side which came at the
thought of her isolation, and humming defiantly she sat down at the
white piano and opened the score of a light opera which she knew:

Say not love is a dream,
Say not that hope is vain ...

She had danced to that tune last night--no, the night before
last--danced to it with that extraordinarily impulsive young man
from home--for all America was now home to her spirit. And she had
promised to see him last night. She wondered what he had thought of
her absence.... She could imagine the Evershams dolefully deploring
her rashness, yet not without a totally unconscious tinge of proper
relish at its prompt punishment. They were such dismal old dears!
They _would_ complain--they must have made her the talk of the hotel
by now. Robert Falconer would enjoy that! And his sister and Lady
Claire would ask about her, and Lady Claire would say, "How
odd--fancy!" in that rather clipped and high-bred voice of hers....
But she was _not_ going to think about it!

She opened more music, stared wonderingly at the unfamiliar pages,
read the English translation beneath the German lines, then pushed
them away, her cheeks the pinker. They were as bad as French
postcards, she thought, aghast. Whose room was this, anyway? Whose
piano was this? Whose was the lacy negligee she had worn and the
gossamer lingerie the maid had placed in the chiffonier for her? Was
she usurping her hostess's boudoir?

She began to walk restlessly up and down the room, feeling time
interminable, hating each lagging second of delay.

Then came a tray of luncheon, and lying upon it a yellow envelope.
With an eagerness that hurt in its keenness she snatched it up and
tore out the folded sheet. Her eyes leaped down the lines. Then
slowly they followed them again:

I think it very strange of you to leave us like that, but
of course you are your own mistress. We are sorry and
hope it will soon be over and you will join us again,
unless you prefer your other friends, the Maynards. We
have packed your clothes and sent them to Cook's for your
orders, and we have paid your hotel bill. Let us know
when you can join us.

MRS. EVERSHAM.

That was all. No word of real sympathy--no declaration of help.
Passive acceptance of