s and discomforts had been set vibrating by the
name of Captain Boyson.

"You won't want to see him or come across him?" she said abruptly.

"Who? Alfred Boyson? I am not afraid of him in the least. He may say
what he pleases--or think what he pleases. It doesn't matter to me."

"When did you see him last?"

Daphne hesitated a moment. "When he came to ask me for certain things
which had belonged to Beatty."

"For Roger? I remember. It must have been painful."

"Yes," said Daphne unwillingly, "it was. He was very unfriendly. He
always has been--since it happened. But I bore him no malice"--the tone
was firm--"and the interview was short."

"----" The half inaudible word fell like a sigh from Madeleine's lips as
she closed her eyes again to shut out the light which teased them. And
presently she added, "Do you ever hear anything now--from England?"

"Just what I might expect to hear--what more than justifies all that I
did."

Daphne sat rigid on her chair, her hands crossed on her lap. Mrs.
Verrier did not pursue the conversation.

Outside the fog grew thicker and darker. Even the lights on the bridge
were now engulfed. Daphne began to shiver in her fur cloak. She put out
a cold hand and took one of Mrs. Verrier's.

"Dear Madeleine! Indeed, indeed, you ought to let me move you from this
place. Do let me! There's the house at Stockbridge all ready. And in
July I could take you to Newport. I must be off next week, for I've
promised to take the chair at a big meeting at Buffalo on the 29th. But
I can't bear to leave you behind. We could make the journey quite easy
for you. That new car of mine is very comfortable."

"I know it is. But, thank you, dear, I like this hotel; and it will be
summer directly."

Daphne hesitated. A strong protest against "morbidness" was on her lips,
but she did not speak it. In the mist-filled room even the bright fire,
the electric lights, had grown strangely dim. Only the roar outside was
real--terribly, threateningly real. Yet the sound was not so much fierce
as lamentable; the voice of Nature mourning the eternal flow and
conflict at the heart of things. Daphne knew well that, mingled with
this primitive, cosmic voice, there was--for Madeleine Verrier--another;
a plaintive, human cry, that was drawing the life out of her breast, the
blood from her veins, like some baneful witchcraft of old. But she dared
not speak of it; she and the doctor who attended Mrs. Verrier dared no
long