her, walking with her across to the fire
and seating myself in the cosy-corner, while she threw herself upon a
low lounge chair and pillowed her dark head upon a big cushion of
yellow silk. "Where is Mary?" I asked.

"Out. She's dining with the Hennikers to-night, I think."

"And leaves you at home to look after the invalid?" I remarked.

"Oh, I don't mind in the least," she declared, laughing.

"And the old gentleman? What does he say to her constant absence in
the evening?"

"Well, to tell the truth, Ralph, he seldom knows. He usually believes
her to be at home, and I never undeceive him. Why should I?"

I grunted, for I was not at all well pleased with her connivance at
her sister's deceit. The sound that escaped my lips caused her to
glance across at me in quick surprise.

"You are displeased, dear," she said. "Tell me why. What have I done?"

"I'm not displeased with you," I declared. "Only, as you know, I'm not
in favour of deception, and especially so in a wife."

She pursed her lips, and I thought her face went a trifle paler. She
was silent for a moment, then said:

"I don't see why we should discuss that, Ralph. Mary's actions concern
neither of us. It is not for us to prevent her amusing herself,
neither is it our duty to create unpleasantness between husband and
wife."

I did not reply, but sat looking at her, drinking in her beauty in a
long, full draught. How can I describe her? Her form was graceful in
every line; her face perfect in its contour, open, finely-moulded, and
with a marvellous complexion--a calm, sweet countenance that reminded
one of Raphael's "Madonna" in Florence, indeed almost its counterpart.
Her beauty had been remarked everywhere. She had sat to a well-known
R.A. for his Academy picture two years before, and the artist had
declared her to be one of the most perfect types of English beauty.

Was it any wonder, then, that I was in love with her? Was it any
wonder that those wonderful dark eyes held me beneath their spell, or
those dark locks that I sometimes stroked from off her fair white brow
should be to me the most beautiful in all the world? Man is but
mortal, and a beautiful woman always enchants.

As she sat before me in her evening gown of some flimsy cream stuff,
all frills and furbelows, she seemed perfect in her loveliness. The
surroundings suited her to perfection--the old Chippendale and the
palms, while the well-shaded electric lamp in its wrought-iron stand