a
rich red--magnificent red hair that coils itself round her shapely
head, and adds another lustre to the exquisite purity of her skin.
Her eyes have a good deal of red in them, too, mixed with a warm
brown--wonderful eyes that hold you when they catch you, and are
difficult to forget. Some women are born with strange charms; Marian
Bethune is one of them. To go through the world with such charms is
a risk, for it must mean ruin or salvation, joy or desolation to
many. Most of all is it a risk to the possessor of those charms.

There have been some who have denied the right of Marian to the
title beautiful. But for the most part they have been women, and
with regard to those others--the male minority--well, Mrs. Bethune
could sometimes prove unkind, and there are men who do not readily
forgive. Her mouth is curious, large and full, but not easily to be
understood. Her eyes may speak, but her mouth is a sphinx. Yet it is
a lovely mouth, and the little teeth behind it shine like pearls.
For the rest, she is a widow. She married very badly; went abroad
with her husband; buried him in Montreal; and came home again. Her
purse is as slender as her figure, and not half so well worth
possessing. She says she is twenty-eight, and to her praise be it
acknowledged that she speaks the truth. Even _good_ women sometimes
stammer over this question!

"My sin, my sin?" demands she now gaily, smiling at Lady Rylton.

She flings up her lovely arms, and fastens them behind her head. Her
smile is full of mockery.

"Of course, my dear Marian, you cannot suppose that I have been
blind to the fact that you and Maurice have--for the past
year--been--er----"

"Philandering?" suggests Mrs. Bethune lightly.

She leans a little forward, her soft curved chin coming in
recognition.

"I beg, Marian, you won't be vulgar," says Lady Rylton, fanning
herself petulantly. "It's worse than being immoral."

"Far, _far_ worse!" Mrs. Bethune leans back in her chair, and laughs
aloud. "Well, I'm not immoral," says she.

Her laughter rings through the room. The hot sun behind her is
lighting the splendid masses of her red hair, and the disdainful
gleam that dwells in her handsome eyes.

"Of course not," says Lady Rylton, a little stiffly; "even to
_mention_ such a thing seems to be--er--a little----"

"_Only_ a little?" says Mrs. Bethune, arching her brows. "Oh,
Tessie!" She pauses, and then with an eloquent gesture goes on
again. "After all, why