always showed
with regard to herself so singular a power of self-restraint that
Claire, not unreasonably, doubted if he had any emotions to master, any
passionate feeling to restrain.

All he now did was to take a shagreen case out of his breast pocket and
hold it out towards her.

"Claire," he said quietly, "I have brought you, in memory of our wedding
day, a little gift which I hope you will like. It is a medallion of the
children." And as she at last advanced towards him, he pressed a spring,
and revealed a dull gold medal on which, modelled in high relief, and
superposed the one on the other, were Clairette's and Jacqueline's
childish, delicately pure profiles.

A softer, kindlier light came into Claire de Wissant's sad grey eyes.
She held out a hesitating hand--and Jacques de Wissant, before placing
his gift in it, took that soft hand in his, and, bending rather
awkwardly, kissed it lightly. In France, even now, a man will often kiss
a woman's hand by way of conventional, respectful homage. But to Claire
the touch of her husband's lips was hateful--so hateful indeed that she
had to make an instant effort to hide the feeling of physical repulsion
with which that touch had suddenly engulfed her in certain dark recesses
of memory and revolt.

"It is a charming medallion," she said hurriedly, "quite a work of art,
Jacques; and I thank you for having thought of it. It gives me
great--very great pleasure."

And then something happened which was to her so utterly unexpected that
she gave a stifled cry of pain--almost it seemed of fear.

As she forced herself to look straight into her husband's face, the
anguish in her own sore heart unlocked the key to his, and she perceived
with the eyes of the soul, which see, when they are not holden, so much
that is concealed from the eyes of the body, the suffering, the dumb
longing she had never allowed herself to know were there.

For the first time since her marriage--since that wedding day of which
this was the tenth anniversary--Claire felt pity for Jacques as well as
for herself. For the first time her rebellious heart acknowledged that
her husband also was enmeshed in a web of tragic circumstance.

"Jacques?" she cried. "Oh, Jacques!" And as she so uttered his name
twice, there came a look of acute distress and then of sudden resolution
on her face. "I wish you to know," she exclaimed, "that--that--if I
were a wicked woman I should perhaps be to you a better wife!" T