ew her mood
at all, he must have realized that this was but the sponge of vinegar
held to the lips, softened but little, if at all, with the gentle
flavour of hyssop.

They had finished dinner now and were just sipping coffee preparatory
to departure.

"Is that all she said?" Sally asked, imperturbably.

"Oh no, I'm sure it wasn't. But that girl--Miss Standish-Roe--who's
gone with them to-night--she was there, and she kept on breaking into
our conversation so that really I can't quite remember."

Had he watched Sally's face then, as closely as he had watched it
all through dinner, he would have seen the colour of ashes that swept
across it, tardily letting the blood drain back into her cheeks.

"Miss Standish-Roe?" she repeated, almost inaudibly.

"Yes--Coralie--she's the youngest daughter of old Sir Standish-Roe.
All the others have paired off. Didn't you know Jack was going with
them to-night?"

"Not with her."

"By Jove--I'm sorry, then." He shrugged his shoulders to free himself
from the sense of discomfort to his conscience. "I suppose I ought
not to have mentioned it."

"Why not?"

It is hard to prevent a woman, in the stress of emotion, from becoming
melodramatic. Tragedy twists her features, strikes unnatural lights
in her eyes. She has but little understanding of the drama of reserve.
She acts with her heart, not with her brain--with her emotions, not
with her intellect. In a moment of Tragedy, it is possible for a man
to think consciously in his mind of the appearance he presents. With
a woman that is impossible. Considerate at every other time of the
impression which she gives, a woman, with the full light of emotion
upon her, throws appearances to the winds. She will cry, though she
knows there is nothing less prepossessing; she will distend nostrils,
curl her lip with an ugly turn, fling herself utterly into the grip
of the situation, and lose dignity in the tempest of her feelings,
unless it be, as in some cases, that the imperiousness of anger should
add a dignity to her stature.

So, in that moment, it became with Sally. From the instant that she
knew there was another woman in Traill's life--and it needed even
less than instinct to show her that this girl was trying to steal
him from her--the whole flame of jealousy licked her with a burning
tongue. Quiet, sensitive, tender-hearted little Sally Bishop blazed
into a furnace of emotion. She did not even know that she was
melodramatic; she