afraid of the barrier, and afraid of the
girl's passionate loyalty. She did not deserve it, she knew, and she
would be more at ease--she could not say happier, because there was no
such word as happiness for her--without it. Somehow she could not bear
to talk of Victoria's struggle to come to her rescue. The thought of all
the girl had done made her feel unable to live up to it, or be grateful.
She did not want to be called upon to live up to any standard. She
wanted--if she wanted anything--simply to go on blindly, as fate led.
But she felt that near her fate hovered, like the carrier-pigeon; and
some terrible force within herself, which frightened her, seemed ready
to push away or destroy anything that might come between her and that
fate. She knew that she ought to question Victoria about the past years
of their separation, one side of her nature was eager to hear the story.
But the other side, which had gained strength lately, forced her to
dwell upon less intimate things.

"I suppose Mrs. Ray managed to keep most of poor father's money?" she
said.

"Mrs. Ray died when I was fourteen, and after that Mr. Potter lost
everything in speculation," the girl answered.

"Everything of yours, too?"

"Yes. But it didn't matter, except for the delay. My dancing--_your_
dancing really, dearest, because if it hadn't been for you I shouldn't
have put my heart into it so--earned me all I needed."

"I said you were extraordinary! But how queer it seems to hear those
names again. Mrs. Ray. Mr. Potter. They're like names in a dream. How
wretched I used to think myself, with Mrs. Ray in Paris, when she was so
jealous and cross! But a thousand times since, I've wished myself back
in those days. I was happy, really. I was free. Life was all before me."

"Dearest! But surely you weren't miserable from the very first,
with--with Cassim?"

"No-o. I suppose I wasn't. I was in love with him. It seemed very
interesting to be the wife of such a man. Even when I found that he
meant to make me lead the life of an Arab woman, shut up and veiled, I
liked him too well to mind much. He put it in such a romantic way,
telling me how he worshipped me, how mad with jealousy he was even to
think of other men seeing my face, and falling in love with it. He
thought every one must fall in love! All girls like men to be
jealous--till they find out how sordid jealousy can be. And I was so
young--a child. I felt as if I were living in a wonderful Easte