every
woman, she is aware of devotion and pleased by it. I don't believe it's
anything more."

"I believe," said Miss Scrotton, after a moment, and with resolution,
"that it's a great passion; the last great passion of her life."

"Oh, my dear!"

"A great passion," Miss Scrotton persisted, "and for a man whom she
knows not to be in any way her equal. It is that that exasperates her."

Mrs. Forrester meditated for a little while and then, owning to a
certain mutual recognition of facts, she said: "I don't believe that
it's a great passion; but I think that a woman like Mercedes, a genius
of that scope, needs always to feel in her life the elements of a
'situation'--and life always provides such women with a choice of
situations. They are stimulants. Mr. Drew and his like, with whatever
unrest and emotion they may cause her, nourish her art. Even a great
passion would be a tempest that filled her sails and drove her on; in
the midst of it she would never lose the power of steering. She has
essentially the strength and detachment of genius. She watches her own
emotions and makes use of them. Did you ever hear her play more
magnificently than on Friday? If Mr. Drew _y etait pour quelque chose_,
it was in the sense that she made mincemeat of him and presented us in
consequence with a magnificent sausage."

Miss Scrotton, who had somewhat forgotten her personal grievance in the
exhilaration of these analyses, granted the sausage and granted that
Mercedes made mincemeat of Mr. Drew--and of her friends into the
bargain. "But my contention and my fear is," she said, "that he will
make mincemeat of her before he is done with her."

Miss Scrotton did not rank highly for wisdom in Mrs. Forrester's
estimation; but for her perspicacity and intelligence she had more
regard than she cared to admit. Echoes of Eleanor's distrusts and fears
remained with her, and, though it was but a minor one, such an echo
vibrated loudly on Monday afternoon when Betty Jardine appeared at
tea-time with Karen.

It was the afternoon that Karen had promised to Betty, and when this
fact had been made known to Tante it was no grievance and no protest
that she showed, only a slight hesitation, a slight gravity, and then,
as if with cheerful courage in the face of an old sadness: "_Eh bien_,"
she said. "Bring her back here to tea, _ma cherie_. So I shall come to
know this new friend of my Karen's better."

Betty was not at all pleased at being brough