ither
in French or German, preferably French.

Strange that neither Mary nor I ever imagined there was any mystery in
her life; ever guessed how much lay behind her frank allusions to her
father, and the nomadic existence they had led. I wondered, for the
thousandth time, how it was that Jim first suspected her of concealing
something. How angry I was at him when he hinted his suspicions; and yet
he had hit on the exact truth! I knew now that her visit to Mary was not
what it had seemed,--but that she had seized upon the opportunity
presented by the invitation to snatch a brief interval of peace, and
comparative safety. If she had happened to encounter Cassavetti earlier,
doubtless her visit would have terminated then. Yes, that must be the
explanation; and how splendidly she had played her dangerous part!

I hated to think of all the duplicity that part entailed; I would not
think of it. The part was thrust on her, from her birth, by her
upbringing, and if she played it gallantly, fearlessly, resourcefully,
the more honor to her. But it was a bitter thought that Fortune should
have thrust all this upon her!

As I lay there in that frowzy room, staring at a shaft of moonlight that
came through a chink in the shutters, making a bar of light in the
darkness like a great, unsheathed sword, her face was ever before my
mind's eyes, vividly as if she were indeed present,--the lovely mobile
face, "growing and fading and growing before me without a sound," now
sparkling with mirth, now haughty as that of a petulant young queen
towards a disfavored courtier. Mary used to call her "dear Lady Disdain"
when she was in that mood. Again, it appeared pale and set as I had seen
it last, the wide brilliant eyes flashing indignant defiance at her
accusers; but more often with the strange, softened, wistful expression
it had worn when we stood together under the portico of the Cecil on
that fatal night; and when she waved me good-bye at Charing Cross.

In those moments one phase of her complex nature had been uppermost; and
in those moments she loved me,--me, Maurice Wynn, not Loris Solovieff,
or any other!

I would not have relinquished that belief to save my soul; although I
knew well that the mood was necessarily a transient one. She had devoted
her beauty, her talents, her splendid courage, her very life, to a
hopeless cause. She was as a queen, whose realm is beset with dangers
and difficulties, and who therefore can spare littl