list
of guests. I'm afraid you think I'm not the sort of friend to tell
anything serious to, but really, Lady Chetwode, you're wrong there. If
there was anything on earth that I could do----"

"It's something so annoying, so horrid," she said. Her voice was
trembling.

"Tell me."

He looked so genuinely unhappy for her sake that, not being of the
disposition that conceals its sorrows from the sympathetic, Felicity of
course told him all about it.

He waited a minute, pale with interest, and then said--

"I appreciate your telling me this. But, of course, the whole trouble is
entirely imaginary. Oh, I know that doesn't make it any better for the
moment; but it's more evanescent."

"Imaginary? Why do you think that?"

"Well, the one thing that I pride myself on just the _least_ little bit
is an instinct--an instinct for temperament. I would undertake to swear
that Chetwode is one of those exceptional people who only love one woman
in their lives. He would never think of looking at any one except you.
Of course, I know there are many men who don't really appreciate the
most perfect woman if she happens to belong to them. But Chetwode isn't
like that. He hasn't a fickle nature; he doesn't seek for variety and
novelty. What you suppose is impossible to him. Not only now, but it
always will be."

"You may be quite right about his temperament, Bertie. I dare say you
are. But how do you account for the picture?"

"I don't. But there is an explanation. I don't pretend to be one of
those wonderful thought-readers who, in some public calamity, see in the
crystal everything they've read in the papers. You'll soon find out
about it. It's some mistake."

She held out the picture to him.

"But she's very pretty, Bertie."

Wilton examined the picture.

"A very dull, harmless, insipid style of prettiness," he said
consolingly. "The kind of face that once seen is never remembered, as
has been so well said of the characteristic British face. This woman is
devoted to her husband; goes to church every Sunday, takes great
interest in parish work, adores her children----"

"How many has she?"

He looked at the picture again.

"From her expression, I should say two--two boys; and I'm quite sure
she's very much more interested in their reports and their colds, their
sins and their talents, than in--for instance--Chetwode, or in anything
of the kind you seem to suggest."

"She never comes to London," said Felicity. "They