than she brought him to save the pride of her family.

But Claire--he could not help thinking of it to-day with a sense of
bitter injury--had never seemed grateful, had never seemed to understand
all that had been done for her....

Had he not poured splendid gifts upon her in the beginning of their
married life? And, what had been far more difficult, had he not, within
reason, contented all her strange whims and fantasies?

But nought had availed him to secure even a semblance of that steadfast,
warm affection, that sincere interest and pride in his concerns which is
all such a Frenchman as was Jacques de Wissant expects, or indeed
desires, of his wedded wife. Had Claire been such a woman, Jacques' own
passion for her would soon have dulled into a reasonable, comfortable
affection. But his wife's cool aloofness had kept alive the hidden
fires, the more--so ironic are the tricks which sly Dame Nature
plays--that for many years past he had troubled her but very little with
his company.

Outwardly Claire de Wissant did her duty, entertaining his friends and
relations on such occasions as was incumbent on her, and showing
herself a devoted and careful mother to the twin daughters who formed
the only vital link between her husband and herself. But inwardly?
Inwardly they two were strangers.

And yet only during the last few months had Jacques de Wissant ever felt
jealous of his wife. There had been times when he had been angered by
the way in which her young beauty, her indefinable, mysterious charm,
had attracted the very few men with whom she was brought into contact.
But Claire, so her husband had always acknowledged to himself, was no
flirt; she was ever perfectly "correct."

Correct was a word dear to Jacques de Wissant. It was one which he used
as a synonym for great things--things such as honour, fineness of
conduct, loyalty.

But fate had suddenly introduced a stranger into the dull, decorous life
of the Pavillon de Wissant, and it was he, Jacques himself, who had
brought him there.

How bitter it was to look back and remember how much he had liked--liked
because he had respected--Commander Dupre! He now hated and feared the
naval officer, and he would have given much to have been able to despise
him. But that Jacques de Wissant could not do. Commander Dupre was still
all that he had taken him to be when he first made him free of his
house--a brilliant officer, devoted to his profession, already noted in
th