t, if he had liked, have led the way to matters of
interest, to that opening of the heart to somebody for which she was
pining. His polite care not to embarrass her shut the door.

"I mean, just now," she resumed, "while our seat's so shaky, you know."

"Ah, yes," said he half-absently.

She leant back in her chair and looked at him.

"I think," she said, "you look as if you did care, about Mr. Blair or
about something else. I wanted to tell you that I don't agree in the
least with the criticisms on you." She leant forward, asking in a lower
voice, "Do they hurt you?"

"Not much. A man likes to succeed, but there are things I like better."

"Yes. Well, there's nothing we--_we_--like better, Mr. Marchmont."

He rose and stood on the hearth; her eyes were upturned to his in a
steady gaze.

"You were always very frank, weren't you?" he asked, looking down and
smiling. "Well, you've known what you say for a long while, haven't
you?"

"Oh, yes, even before--Oh, ever since the very beginning, you know.
There now! We've left 'We' and got to 'I,' and whenever that happens I
say something I oughtn't to. But one must sometimes. I believe I could
serve anybody to the death if only I were allowed to speak my whole mind
about him once a week. But it's disloyal, I suppose."

"Well, I suppose it is."

She laughed. "That's what Mr. Blair means," she said. "You must have
seen that I wanted you to say 'No, it isn't.' Perhaps you would have to
anybody else. You were always one of the people who attributed all the
virtues to me. You made it so hard for me to be good. I loathed the girl
you thought I was. One comfort is that as I am now----". Suddenly her
eyes met his; she stopped. "We'd better talk about 'we' again," she
ended with a laugh.

"Whom do you talk to?" he asked curiously.

"About 'we'? I talk to Miss Quisante--You've met her? She's never tired
of talking about 'we'--though she doesn't like us; but she doesn't care
a bit to talk about me."

"Have a confidante," he suggested gravely.

"Yes--like Tilburina. Who shall I have?"

A run through their acquaintance suggested only Mrs. Gellatly, and her
May rejected as being too suitable, too much the traditional confidante.
"I should like one who might possibly have something to tell me in
return, and she never could," she said.

They were interrupted by the arrival of the man of whom they had spoken,
Constantine Blair. He came with important and, as he clearly cons