in she answered in a low tone, unfamiliar to him.

'Yes. Something has happened.'

Then neither spoke for some time. When Margaret broke the silence at
last, there was a little defiance in her voice, a touch of recklessness
in her manner, as new to Lushington as her low, absent-minded tone had
been when she had last spoken.

'It was only natural, I suppose,' she laughed, a little sharply. 'I'm
too good for one and not good enough for the other! It would be really
interesting to know just how good one ought to be--when one is an
artist!'

'What do you mean?' asked Lushington, not understanding at all.

'My dear child!' She laughed again, and both the words and the laugh
jarred on Lushington, as being a little unlike her--she had never
addressed him in that way before. 'You don't really suppose that I am
going to explain, do you? You made up your mind that I was much too
fine a lady to marry the son of a singer--much too good for you, in
fact--though I would have married you just then!'

'Just then!' Lushington repeated the words sadly.

'Certainly not now,' answered Margaret viciously. 'You would come to
your senses in a week with a start, to find your idol in a very shaky
and moth-eaten state. I'm horribly human, after all! I admit it!'

'What is the matter with you?' asked Lushington, rather sharply. 'What
has become of you?' he asked, as she gave him no answer. 'Where are
you, the real you? I saw you when I came, and you brought me out on the
lawn, and it was going to be so nice, just as it used to be; and now,
on a sudden, you are gone, and there is some one I don't know in your
place.'

Margaret laughed, leaned back in her chair and looked at the pond.

'Some one you don't know?' she repeated, with a question.

'Yes.'

'I wonder!' She laughed again. 'It must be that,' she said presently.
'It cannot be anything else.'

'What?'

'It must be "Cordova." Don't you think so? I know just what you mean--I
feel it, I hear it in my voice when I speak, I see it in the glass when
I look at myself. But not always. It comes and it goes, it has its
hours. Sometimes I'm it when I wake up suddenly in the night, and
sometimes I'm Margaret Donne, whom you used to like. And I'm sure of
something else. Shall I tell you? One of these days Margaret Donne will
go away and never come back, and there will be only Cordova left, and
then I suppose I shall go to the bad. They all do, you know.'

Lushington did know, and made