e come to see me."

It was mid-May, and a fragrant breeze stirred the delicate curtains of
Lady Kingsmead's little drawing-room in Pont Street. There were flowers
everywhere, chiefly white lilacs, and the pale green and white chintz
and the quantities of light-hued pillows on the sofas (all of which
belonged, as yet, to Messrs. Liberty) made of the room a pleasant refuge
from the unusual heat outside. Lady Kingsmead, dressed in pale pink,
looked in the faint light very pretty as she leaned back in her deep
chair and played with the Persian cat.

Carron, upright on his small gilt chair, was pale and agitated, the
primitive feelings showing in his ravaged face looking in some way more
out of place, because he was exquisitely frock-coated and had a
fresh-blown tea-rose in his button-hole, than they would have done if he
had been shabby.

When Lady Kingsmead had spoken, he cleared his throat and began
hurriedly: "Antoinette--my--my wife is dead."

"Good Lord, Gerald, how you startled me! Is she really?"

"Yes, I--I saw her this morning."

"Drink?" asked Lady Kingsmead, pleasantly.

He frowned. "No. Cancer."

"How--horrid!"

She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder.

"You look ill, poor dear. What is the matter? _Your_ looks are a bit on
the blink, too, Gerry! You must buck up."

She sat down and dabbed gingerly at her eyes with a scrap of
handkerchief. "It _is_ rather tragic, in its very insignificance, isn't
it? Well--what is it? Is it Brigit?"

Mutely and miserably he bowed his head, until she saw the carefully
concealed thin place on his crown.

"I thought so. It's no good, Gerald--give me the cat, will you?--she
dislikes you."

"She loathes me. And I would be burnt to death for her to-morrow."

She started at something in his tone--something she had not heard for
years.

"Can't you get over it?"

"No."

"Then----"

"Oh, my God, Tony, _I_ don't know. Can't--can't you help me?"

"I!"

"Yes. She can't love that boy; he is utterly insignificant. She's
marrying him for his money."

"No. She likes him. But, of course, the money helped. But she wouldn't
marry you if you were a millionaire yourself. She loathes you. Always
has."

"I am going mad, I think. I haven't slept for months. Look at my hand,
how it shakes; anyone would think I was a drunkard! Look here, Tony,
couldn't you ask her to speak civilly to me, at least?"

She was almost frightened as she looked at his piteous face. He