these chaotic thoughts surging through her, and ever beside her
the voice of Kenneth McVeigh, not the voice alone, but the eyes, at
times appealing, at times dominant, as he met her gaze, and forbade
that she be indifferent.

"Why should you starve yourself as well as me?" he asked, softly, when
she declined the dishes brought to her, and made pretense of drinking
the cup of tea he offered.

"You--starving?" and the slight arching of the dark brows added to the
note of question.

"Yes, for a word of hope."

"Really? and what word do you covet?"

"The one telling me if the Countess Biron's gossip was the only reason
you sent me away."

Mrs. McVeigh looked over at the two, well satisfied that Kenneth was
giving attention to her most distinguished guest. Gertrude Loring
looked across to the couple on the rustic seat and felt, without
hearing, what the tenor of the conversation was. Kenneth McVeigh was
wooing a woman who looked at him with slumbrous magnetic eyes and
laughed at him. Gertrude envied her the wooing, but hated her for the
laughter. All her life Kenneth McVeigh had been her ideal, but to this
finished coquette of France he was only the man of the moment, who
contributed to her love of power, her amusement. For the girl, who was
his friend, read clearly the critical, half contemptuous gleams,
alternating at times the graciousness of Madame Caron's dark eyes. She
glanced at Monroe, and guessed that he was no more pleased than
herself at the tete-a-tete there, and that he was quite as watchful.

And the cause of it all met Colonel McVeigh's question with a glance,
half alluring, half forbidding, as she sipped the tea and put aside
the cup.

"How persistent you are," she murmured. "If you adopt the same methods
in warfare I do not wonder at your rapid promotions. But I shan't
encourage it a moment longer; you have other guests, and I have a
letter to write."

She crossed to Mrs. McVeigh, murmured a few words of excuse, exchanged
a smile with Evilena, who declared her a deserter from their ranks,
and then moved up the steps to the veranda and passed through the open
window into the library, pausing for a little backward glance ere she
entered; and the people on the lawn who raised their glasses to her,
did not guess that she looked over their heads, scanning the road for
the expected messenger.

Looking at the clock she seated herself, picked up the pen, and then
halted, holding her hand out and noting