s air, and who are infected by this love without power of
resisting it. To such a love had she yielded once in the chill
and emptiness of rich drawing rooms. That was a happening of long
ago; she was the weaker at that time because she was caught by a
breeze from the spring of her life, passed in the company of that
man who was casting himself at her feet then. In that moment of
yielding a pebble had dropped on her, the weight of which
increased with the course of years and the growth of her
children. She had not thought for an instant that she was the
heroine of a drama. On the contrary, she repeated, with a face
always blushing from shame: "Weak! weak! weak!" and, from a time
rather remote, it was joined with another word, "Guilty." She was
weak, still to-day she had found strength at last to cut one of
those knots in which her life had been involved so repulsively.
Oh, that the other might be torn apart quickly; then she could go
far from the world into lone obscurity, an abyss occupied only by
her endless penitence. In her head a plan had matured. She wished
to speak with Darvid as soon as possible, and she doubted not
that in the near future he would agree with her. Her daughters?
Well, was it not better that such a mother should leave them,
vanish from their eyes?

Irene pushed to the window a small table, on which were painting
materials; she took her place at the table, and with fixed
attention in her eyes began to outline a cluster of beautiful
flowers. They were chrysanthemums, and seemed to be opening their
snowy and fiery petals to mystic kisses. Deep silence reigned in
the mansion, and only after a certain time had passed did the
sound of glasses and porcelain come from a remote apartment, and
at the door of the study a servant appeared, announcing that
lunch was served. Irene raised her head from her work:

"Tell Panna Caroline and Miss Mary that mamma and I will not come
to the table."

She added a command to bring two cups of bouillon and some rusks.
A while later she stood with a cup in her hand at her mother's
door.

"May I come in?"

She held her ear to the door; there was no answer. Her lids
blinked anxiously; she repeated the question, adding:

"Mamma, I beg--"

"Come in, Ira!"

Covered with silken materials Malvina was like a glittering wave
on the bed. Irene entered with the bouillon and the rusks, then
slipped through the room quietly and let down the shades. A mild
half-gloom fille