Good in the essentials of life, that is to be understood. She had lived
in a lax world. She was not particularly troubled by the character of
her associates; she was untouched by them; she liked her fling at the
baccarat-tables. These were details, and did not distress her. Love had
not turned her into a Puritan. But certain recollections plagued her
soul. The visit to the restaurant at Montmartre, for instance, and the
seances. Of these, indeed, she thought to have made an end. There were
the baccarat-rooms, the beauty of the town and the neighbourhood to
distract Mme. Dauvray. Celia kept her thoughts away from seances. There
was no seance as yet held in the Villa Rose. And there would have been
none but for Helene Vauquier.

One evening, however, as Harry Wethermill walked down from the Cercle
to the Villa des Fleurs, a woman's voice spoke to him from behind.

"Monsieur!"

He turned and saw Mme. Dauvray's maid. He stopped under a street lamp,
and said:

"Well, what can I do for you?"

The woman hesitated.

"I hope monsieur will pardon me," she said humbly. "I am committing a
great impertinence. But I think monsieur is not very kind to Mlle.
Celie."

Wethermill stared at her.

"What on earth do you mean?" he asked angrily.

Helene Vauquier looked him quietly in the face.

"It is plain, monsieur, that Mlle. Celie loves monsieur. Monsieur has
led her on to love him. But it is also plain to a woman with quick eyes
that monsieur himself cares no more for mademoiselle than for the
button on his coat. It is not very kind to spoil the happiness of a
young and pretty girl, monsieur."

Nothing could have been more respectful than the manner in which these
words were uttered. Wethermill was taken in by it. He protested
earnestly, fearing lest the maid should become an enemy.

"Helene, it is not true that I am playing with Mlle. Celie. Why should
I not care for her?"

Helene Vauquier shrugged her shoulders. The question needed no answer.

"Why should I seek her so often if I did not care?"

And to this question Helene Vauquier smiled--a quiet, slow,
confidential smile.

"What does monsieur want of Mme. Dauvray?" she asked. And the question
was her answer.

Wethermill stood silent. Then he said abruptly:

"Nothing, of course; nothing." And he walked away.

But the smile remained on Helene Vauquier's face. What did they all
want of Mme. Dauvray? She knew very well. It was what she herself
wanted--with ot