for Waythorn's peace
of mind that Haskett's very inoffensiveness shed a new light on the
nature of those illusions. A man would rather think that his wife has
been brutalized by her first husband than that the process has been
reversed.

"Why, how do you do?" she said with a distinct note of pleasure

IV

"MR. WAYTHORN, I don't like that French governess of Lily's."

Haskett, subdued and apologetic, stood before Waythorn in the library,
revolving his shabby hat in his hand.

Waythorn, surprised in his armchair over the evening paper, stared back
perplexedly at his visitor.

"You'll excuse my asking to see you," Haskett continued. "But this is
my last visit, and I thought if I could have a word with you it would
be a better way than writing to Mrs. Waythorn's lawyer."

Waythorn rose uneasily. He did not like the French governess either;
but that was irrelevant.

"I am not so sure of that," he returned stiffly; "but since you wish it
I will give your message to--my wife." He always hesitated over the
possessive pronoun in addressing Haskett.

The latter sighed. "I don't know as that will help much. She didn't
like it when I spoke to her."

Waythorn turned red. "When did you see her?" he asked.

"Not since the first day I came to see Lily--right after she was taken
sick. I remarked to her then that I didn't like the governess."

Waythorn made no answer. He remembered distinctly that, after that
first visit, he had asked his wife if she had seen Haskett. She had
lied to him then, but she had respected his wishes since; and the
incident cast a curious light on her character. He was sure she would
not have seen Haskett that first day if she had divined that Waythorn
would object, and the fact that she did not divine it was almost as
disagreeable to the latter as the discovery that she had lied to him.

"I don't like the woman," Haskett was repeating with mild persistency.
"She ain't straight, Mr. Waythorn--she'll teach the child to be
underhand. I've noticed a change in Lily--she's too anxious to
please--and she don't always tell the truth. She used to be the
straightest child, Mr. Waythorn--" He broke off, his voice a little
thick. "Not but what I want her to have a stylish education," he ended.

Waythorn was touched. "I'm sorry, Mr. Haskett; but frankly, I don't
quite see what I can do."

Haskett hesitated. Then he laid his hat on the table, and advanced to
the hearth-rug, on which Waythorn was standing