losing his wits," said Philip hastily, "he's quite
patient, and--and all that sort of thing. Don't bother about him,
Thelma, he's all right!"

And he fumbled hastily with some papers, and began to talk of something
else. His embarrassed manner caused her to wonder a little at the time
as to the reason of it,--but she had many other things to think about,
and she soon forgot a conversation that might have proved a small
guiding-link in the chain of events that were soon about to follow
quickly one upon another, shaking her life to its very foundation. Lady
Winsleigh found it almost impossible to get her on the subject of the
burlesque actress, Violet Vere, and Sir Philip's supposed admiration for
that notorious stage-siren.

"I do not believe it," she said firmly, "and you--you must not believe
it either, Clara. For wherever you heard it, it is wrong. We should
dishonor Philip by such a thought--you are his friend, and I am his
wife--we are not the ones to believe anything against him, even if it
could be proved--and there are no proofs."

"My dear," responded her ladyship easily. "You can get proofs for
yourself if you like. For instance, ask Sir Philip how often he has seen
Miss Vere lately,--and hear what he says."

Thelma colored deeply. "I would not question my husband on such a
subject," she said proudly.

"Oh well! if you are so fastidious!" And Lady Winsleigh shrugged her
shoulders.

"I am not fastidious," returned Thelma, "only I do wish to be worthy of
his love,--and I should not be so if I doubted him. No, Clara, I will
trust him to the end."

Clara Winsleigh drew nearer to her, and took her hand.

"Even if he were unfaithful to you?" she asked in a low, impressive
tone.

"Unfaithful!" Thelma uttered the word with a little cry. "Clara, dear
Clara, you must not say such a word! Unfaithful! That means that my
husband would love some one more than me!--ah! that is impossible!"

"Suppose it were possible?" persisted Lady Winsleigh, with a cruel light
in her dark eyes. "Such things have been!"

Thelma stood motionless, a deeply mournful expression on her fair, pale
face. She seemed to think for a moment, then she spoke.

"I would never believe it!" she said solemnly. "Never, unless I heard it
from his own lips, or saw it in his own writing, that he was weary of
me, and wanted me no more."

"And then?"

"Then"--she drew a quick breath--"I should know what to do. But, Clara,
you must understand me