enough."

If Diane listened to these familiar remarks, it was only to take a dull
satisfaction in the working of her scheme; but Mrs. Eveleth's next words
startled her into sudden attention.

"Haven't I heard you say that you knew James van Tromp's nephew, Derek
Pruyn?"

"I did know him," Diane answered, with a trace of hesitation.

"You knew him well?"

"Not exactly; it was different from--well."

"Different? How? Did you meet him often?"

"Never often; but when we did meet--"

The possibilities implied in Diane's pause induced Mrs. Eveleth to turn
in her chair and look at her.

"You've never told me about that."

"There wasn't much to tell. Don't you know what it is to have met, just
a few times in your life, some one who leaves behind a memory out of
proportion to the degree of the acquaintance? It was something like that
with this Mr. Pruyn."

"Where was it? In Paris?"

"I met him first in Ireland. He was staying with some friends of ours
the last year mamma and I lived at Kilrowan. What I remember about him
was that he seemed so young to be a widower--scarcely more than a boy."

"Is that all?"

"It's very nearly all; but there _is_ something more. He said one day
when we were talking intimately--we always seemed to talk intimately
when we were together--that if ever I was in trouble, I was to remember
him."

"How extraordinary!"

"Yes, it was. I reminded him of it when we met again. That was the year
I was going out with Marie de Nohant, just before George and I were
married."

"And what did he say then?"

"That he repeated the request."

"Extraordinary!" Mrs. Eveleth commented again. "Are you going to do
anything about it?"

"I've thought of it," Diane admitted, "but I don't believe I can."

"Wouldn't it be a pity to neglect so good an opportunity?"

"It might rather be a pity to avail one's self of it. There are things
in life too pleasant to put to the test."

"He might like you to do it. After all, he's a connection."

Not caring to continue the subject, Diane murmured something about
feeling cold, and rose for a little exercise. Having advanced as far
forward as she could go, she turned her back upon her fellow-passengers,
stretched in mute misery in their chairs or huddled in cheerful groups
behind sheltering projections, and stood watching the dip and rise of
the steamer's bow as it drove onward into the mist. Whither was she
going, and to what? With a desperate sense of her