r scene. And as the Belgian was jealous of
the French girl, so were the English girls horribly jealous of all the
foreign girls, and scornful too. Nothing but the overwhelming desire
of the management to maintain the perfect respectability of its
Promenade had prevented a rough-and-tumble between the officers.
As for Madame Larivaudiere, she had been ejected and told never to
return. Christine had fled to the cloak-room, where she had remained
for half an hour, and thence had vanished away, solitary, by the side
entrance. It was precisely such an episode as Christine's mother would
have deprecated in horror, and as Christine herself intensely loathed.
And she could never assuage the moral wound of it by confiding the
affair to Gilbert. She was mad about Gilbert; she thrilled to be his
slave; she had what seemed an immeasurable confidence in him; and yet
never, never could she mention another individual man to him, much
less tell him of the public shame that had fallen upon her in the
exercise of her profession. Why had fate been thus hard on her? The
answer was surely to be found in the displeasure of the Virgin. And so
she did not dare to stay with the Miraculous Infant Jesus of Prague,
nor even to murmur the prayer beginning: "Adorable Jesus, divin modele
de la perfection ..."

She glanced round the great church, considering what were to her
the major and minor gods and goddesses on their ornate thrones: St.
Antony, St. Joseph, St. Sebastian, St. Philip, the Sacred Heart, St.
Cecilia, St. Peter, St. Wilfrid, St. Mary Magdelene (Ah! Not at that
altar could she be seen!), St. Patrick, St. Veronica, St. Francis,
St. John Baptist, St. Teresa, Our Lady, Our Lady of Good Counsel. No!
There was only one goddess possible for her--Our Lady of VII Dolours.
She crossed the wide nave to the severe black and white marble chapel
of the VII Dolours. The aspect of the shrine suited her. On one side
she read the English words: "Of your charity pray for the soul of
Flora Duchess of Norfolk who put up this altar to the Mother of
Sorrows that they who mourn may be comforted." And the very words
were romantic to her, and she thought of Flora Duchess of Norfolk as a
figure inexpressibly more romantic than the illustrious female figures
of French history. The Virgin of the VII Dolours was enigmatically
gazing at her, waiting no doubt to be placated. The Virgin was
painted, gigantic, in oil on canvas, but on her breast stood out
a heart mad