witz nor Mr. Drew. "You will not mind if I do not come to dinner
to-night."

"Certainly not. No. Do as you please. You are tired. I see it. And I,
too, am tired." She followed Karen to the door, murmuring: "_Sans
rancune, n'est-ce-pas?_"

"Yes, Tante."

As the door closed upon Karen, Madame von Marwitz turned to Mr. Drew.

"If you wish to see her, why not seek her openly? Who makes it difficult
for you to approach her?" Her voice had the sharpness of splintering
ice.

"Why, no one, _ma chere_," said Mr. Drew. "I wasn't seeking her."

"No? And what did it mean, then, your face pressed close to hers, there
at the window?"

"It meant that I couldn't see who it was who stood there. Just as I can
hardly now see more than that you are unhappy. What is the matter, my
dear and beautiful friend?" His voice was solicitous.

Madame von Marwitz dropped again into her chair and leaning forward, her
hands hanging clasped between her knees, she again wept. "The matter is
the old one," she sobbed. "Ingratitude! Ingratitude on every hand! My
crime now has been that I have sought--at the sacrifice of my own
pride--to bring a reconciliation between that stubborn child and her
husband, and for my reward she overwhelms me with abuse!"

"Tell me about it," said Mr. Drew, seating himself beside her and,
unreproved, taking her hand.

CHAPTER XXXV

Karen did not go to her room. She was afraid that Mrs. Talcott would
come to her there. She asked the cook for a few sandwiches and going to
one of the lower terraces she found a seat there and sat down. She felt
ill. Her mind was sore and vague. She sat leaning her head on her hand,
as she had sat in the morning-room, her eyes closed, and did not try to
think.

She had escaped something--mercifully. Yes, the supreme humiliation that
Tante had prepared for her was frustrated. And she had been strangely
hard and harsh to Tante and in return Tante had been piteous yet
unmoving. Her heart was dulled towards Tante. She felt that she saw her
from a great distance.

The moon had risen and was shining brightly when she at last got up and
climbed the winding paths up to the house.

A definite thought, after the hours that she had sat there, had at last
risen through the dull waters of her mind. Why should Tante go away? Why
should not she herself go? There need be no affront to Tante, no
alienation. But, for a time, at least, would it not be well to prove to
Tante that she could be