and why you don't marry Junia. You love her. You
don't understand why I couldn't play as big a part as your father--I
couldn't. He was always odd--masterful and odd, and I never could do
just as he liked."

There was yearning sadness in her eyes. "Dear Carnac, John Grier is a
whirlwind, but he's also a still pool in which currents are secretly
twisting, turning. His imagination, his power is enormous; but he's
Oriental, a barbarian."

"You mean he might have had twenty wives?"

"He might have had twenty, and he'd have been the same to all of them,
because they play no part, except to make his home a place where his
body can live. That's the kind of thing, when a wife finds it out, that
either kills her slowly, or drives her mad."

"It didn't kill you, mother," remarked Carnac with a little laugh.

"No, it didn't kill me."

"And it didn't drive you mad," he continued.

She looked at him with burning intensity. "Oh, yes, it did--but I became
sane again." She gazed out of the window, down the hillside. "Your
father will soon be home. Is there anything you want to say before
that?"

Carnac wanted to tell his tragic story, but it was difficult. He caught
his mother's hand.

"What's the matter, Carnac? You are in trouble. I can see it in your
eyes--I feel it. Is it money?" she asked. She knew it was not, yet she
could not help but ask. He shook his head in negation.

"Is it business?"

She knew his answer, yet she must make these steps before she said to
him: "Is it a woman?"

He nodded now. She caught his eyes and held them with her own. All the
silence and sorrow, all the remorse and regret of the past twenty-six
years gathered in her face.

"Yes and no," he answered with emotion. "You've quarrelled with Junia?"

"No," he replied.

"Why don't you marry her?" she urged. "We all would like it, even your
father."

"I can't."

"Why?" She leant forward with a slight burning of the cheek. "Why,
Carnac?"

He had determined to keep his own secret, to hide the thing which had
vexed his life, but a sudden feeling overcame his purpose. With impulse
he drew out the letter he had received in John Grier's office and handed
it to her.

"Read that, and then I'll tell you all about it--all I can."

With whitening face, she took the letter and read its few lines. It was
written in French, with savage little flourishes and twists, and the
name signed at the end was "Luzanne." At last she handed it back, her
finger