lf. Is there any love lost between them, think you?"

"No."

"Is there any reason why they should be miserable if they do not want
to be?"

"Isabella could not be more miserable than she is now, though she
hides it well."

"Ah," said John Turner, thoughtfully. "Is that so? I wonder why."

Lucille shrugged her shoulders. She either could not or would not
answer.

"Too much money," suggested Turner.

"When women have plenty of money they usually want something that
cannot be bought."

Lucille frowned.

"And now you are angry, Mademoiselle," said John Turner, placidly,
"and I am not afraid. I will make you still more angry."

He rose heavily, and stood, cigar in hand, looking out to sea--his
round face puckered with thought.

"Mademoiselle Lucille," he said, slowly, "I have known some men and
quite a number of women who have sacrificed their happiness to their
pride. I have known them late in life, when the result had to be lived
through. They were not good company. If pride or love must go
overboard, Mademoiselle, throw pride."

Chapter XXIV

An Explanation

"La discretion defend de questionner, la delicatesse defend
meme de deviner."

We were a quiet party that evening, Madame having decided to ask no
one to meet us. It was like a piece of the old Paris life, for all had
met for better or worse in that city, and spoke the language of the
once brilliant capital.

Madame insisted that I should take the head of the table, she herself
occupying a chair at the foot, which had remained vacant as long as I
could remember. So I sat for the first time in the seat of my
ancestors, whence my father had issued his choleric mandates, only, I
fear, to be answered as hotly.

"You are quiet, Monsieur," said Lucille, who sat at my right hand, and
I thought her glance searched my face in a way that was new.

"Say he is dull," put in Alphonse, whose gaiety was at high-water
mark. "_Ce cher_ Dick--he is naturally so."

And he laughed at me with his old look of affection.

"Mademoiselle means that I am duller than usual," I suggested.

"No," said Lucille, "I meant what I said."

"As always?" inquired Alphonse, in a low voice aside.

"As always," she answered, gravely. And I think she only spoke the
truth.

We did not sit long over our wine, and John Turner reserved his cigar
until a later opportunity.

"I'll play you a game of billiards," he said, looking at me.

In the drawing-room we f