of it, and his voice, which seemed a trifle strained, came up
to Ida clearly.

"I'll just run out and post this. I've told those people that I'll go
as soon as they like," he said.

Then Mrs. Kinnaird quietly closed the door before she crossed the room
and sat down near the girl.

"It's rather hard to bear," she said. "Perhaps I feel it the more
because Arabella will leave me soon."

The woman's quietness troubled Ida, and her eyes grew hazy.

"Oh," she said, "though it isn't quite my fault, how you must blame
me. It's most inadequate, but I can only say that I'm very sorry."

"I suppose what you told Gregory is quite irrevocable?" inquired her
companion.

Ida saw the tense anxiety in the woman's eyes, and her answer cost her
an effort.

"Yes, quite," she said. "I wish I could say anything else."

"I can't blame you, my dear. I blame only myself," said Mrs. Kinnaird.
"I'm afraid I brought this trouble on Gregory, and it makes my share
of it harder to bear. Still, there is something to be said. I wanted
Gregory to marry you because I wanted him near me, but I can't have
you think that I would have tried to bring about a match between him
and any girl with money. My dear," and she leaned forward toward her
companion, "I am fond of you."

Ida made a gesture of comprehension and sympathy, and the little quiet
lady went on again.

"There is just another thing," she said. "Gregory will have very
little--a few hundred a year--but it would not have been a dreadfully
one-sided bargain. He had, after all, a good deal to offer."

Ida raised a hand in protest.

"Oh," she said, "I know."

"Still," continued Mrs. Kinnaird, "I want you to feel quite sure that
he loved you. Without that nothing else would have counted. You will
believe it, won't you? It is due to my son."

She rose with a little sigh.

"Things never go as one would wish them to."

Ida was very sorry for her, but there was so little that could be
said.

"I shall always think well of Gregory," she answered. "You will try to
forgive me?"

Then an impulsive restless longing came over her with the knowledge
that she had brought this woman bitter sorrow.

"I will go home," she broke out. "It will hurt you to see me near you
when Gregory has gone away. There are friends of ours--Mrs. Claridge
and her daughter, you met them--leaving for Paris on Wednesday, and
they sail for New York in a week or two."

It was a relief to both of them to discuss a