he Regeneration of Women'? Gregory's
so good about that sort of thing. But he never seems quite successful,
have you noticed? There was a woman he was very interested in this
spring. I think she drank."

"They all do," said Lady Malden; "it's the curse of the day."

Mrs. Pendyce wrinkled her forehead.

"Most of the Totteridges," she said, "were great drinkers. They ruined
their constitutions. Do you know Jaspar Bellew?"

"No."

"It's such a pity he drinks. He came to dinner here once, and I'm afraid
he must have come intoxicated. He took me in; his little eyes quite
burned me up. He drove his dog cart into a ditch on the way home. That
sort of thing gets about so. It's such a pity. He's quite interesting.
Horace can't stand him."

The music of the waltz had ceased. Lady Maiden put her glasses to her
eyes. From close beside them George and Mrs. Bellew passed by. They
moved on out of hearing, but the breeze of her fan had touched the
arching hair on Lady Maiden's forehead, the down on her upper lip.

"Why isn't she with her husband?" she asked abruptly.

Mrs. Pendyce lifted her brows.

"Do you concern yourself to ask that which a well-bred woman leaves
unanswered?" she seemed to say, and a flush coloured her cheeks.

Lady Maiden winced, but, as though it were forced through her mouth by
some explosion in her soul, she said:

"You have only to look and see how dangerous she is!"

The colour in Mrs. Pendyce's cheeks deepened to a blush like a girl's.

"Every man," she said, "is in love with Helen Bellew. She's so
tremendously alive. My cousin Gregory has been in love with her for
years, though he is her guardian or trustee, or whatever they call them
now. It's quite romantic. If I were a man I should be in love with her
myself." The flush vanished and left her cheeks to their true colour,
that of a faded rose.

Once more she was listening to the voice of young Trefane, "Ah, Margery,
I love you!"--to her own half whispered answer, "Poor boy!" Once more
she was looking back through that forest of her life where she had
wandered so long, and where every tree was Horace Pendyce.

"What a pity one can't always be young!" she said.

Through the conservatory door, wide open to the lawn, a full moon
flooded the country with pale gold light, and in that light the branches
of the cedar-trees seemed printed black on the grey-blue paper of the
sky; all was cold, still witchery out there, and not very far away an
owl