e might have made it plain to those good people that I don't want
strange women at my Friday evenings.'

Lady Aubrey laughed. 'No doubt she is a genius, or a saint, in mufti.
She might be handsome too if some one would dress her.'

Madame de Netteville shrugged her shoulders. 'Oh! life is not long
enough to penetrate that kind of person,' she said.

Meanwhile the 'person' was driving homeward very sad and ill at ease.
She was vexed that she had not done better, and yet she was wounded by
Robert's enjoyment. The Puritan in her blood was all aflame. As she sat
looking into the motley lamp-lit night she could have 'testified' like
any prophetess of old.

Robert meanwhile, his hand slipped into hers, was thinking of Wielandt's
talk, and of some racy stories of Berlin celebrities told by a young
_attache_ who had joined their group. His lips were lightly smiling, his
brow serene.

But as he helped her down from the cab, and they stood in the hall
together, he noticed the pale discomposure of her looks. Instantly the
familiar dread and pain returned upon him.

'Did you like it, Catherine?' he asked her, with something like
timidity, as they stood together by their bedroom fire.

She sank into a low chair and sat a moment staring at the blaze. He
was startled by her look of suffering, and, kneeling, he put his arms
tenderly round her.

'Oh, Robert, Robert!' she cried, falling on his neck.

'What is it?' he asked, kissing her hair.

'I seem all at sea,' she said in a choked voice, her face hidden,--'the
old landmarks swallowed up! I am always judging and condemning,--always
protesting. What am I that I should judge? But how,--how,--can I help
it?'

She drew herself away from him, once more looking into the fire with
drawn brows.

'Darling, the world is full of difference. Men and women take life in
different ways. Don't be so sure yours is the only right one.'

He spoke with a moved gentleness, taking her hand the while.

'"_This_ is the way, walk ye in it!"' she said presently, with strong,
almost stern emphasis. 'Oh those women, and that talk! Hateful!'

He rose and looked down on her from the mantelpiece. Within him was a
movement of impatience, repressed almost at once by the thought of that
long night at Murewell, when he had vowed to himself to 'make amends!'

And if that memory had not intervened she would still have disarmed him
wholly.

'Listen!' she said to him suddenly, her eyes kindling with a s