. And now, may I beg that for the rest of your natural
life"--here she paused, and bit her lip in vexation that the unlucky
phrase had escaped her--"you will speak of this no more?"

"Mrs. Boyd Madras," I said (here she coloured indignantly),--"pardon me
for using the name, but it is only this once,--I shall never speak of
the matter to you again, nor to any one else, unless there is grave
reason."

We walked again in silence. Passing the captain's cabin, we saw a number
of gentlemen gathered about the door, while others were inside. We
paused, to find what the incident was. Captain Ascott was reading the
letter which Boyd Madras had wished to be made public. (I had given it
to him just before the burial, and he was acting as though Boyd Madras
was really dead--he was quite ignorant of our conspiracy.) I was about
to move on, but Mrs. Falchion touched my arm. "Wait," she said. She
stood and heard the letter through. Then we walked on, she musing.
Presently she said: "It is a pity--a pity."

I looked at her inquiringly, but she offered no explanation of the
enigmatical words. But, at this moment, seeing Justine waiting, she
excused herself, and soon I saw her listening to Moliere. Later in the
day I saw her talking with Miss Treherne, and it struck me that she
had never looked so beautiful as then, and that Miss Treherne had never
seemed so perfect a product of a fine convention. But, watching them
together, one who had had any standard of good life could never have
hesitated between the two. It was plain to me that Mrs. Falchion was
bent upon making a conquest of this girl who so delicately withstood
her; and Belle Treherne has told me since, that, when in her presence,
and listening to her, she was irresistibly drawn to her; though at the
same time she saw there was some significant lack in her nature; some
hardness impossible to any one who had ever known love. She also told me
that on this occasion Mrs. Falchion did not mention my name, nor did
she ever in their acquaintance, save in the most casual fashion. Her
conversation with Miss Treherne was always far from petty gossip or that
smart comedy in which some women tell much personal history, with the
guise of badinage and bright cynicism. I confess, though, it struck me
unpleasantly at the time, that this fresh, high-hearted creature should
be in familiar conversation with a woman who, it seemed to me, was the
incarnation of cruelty.

Mrs. Falchion subscribed m