youth just untethered. Their acquaintance
had been for him a combination of charming experiences diluted with
gratitude for her interest and a harmless _soupcon_ of sentimentality.
In her particular case, however, there was a little something more--a
hint of the forbidden--a troubled enjoyment, because he knew, of course,
that Mrs. Ruthven was on no footing at all with the Gerards. So in her
friendship he savoured a piquancy not at all distasteful to a very young
man's palate.

But now!--he had never, never seen her like this--nor any woman, for
that matter--and he did not know where to look or what to do.

She was sitting back in the limousine, very limp and flushed; and the
quiver of her under lip and the slightest dimness of her averted brown
eyes distressed him dreadfully.

"Dear Mrs. Ruthven," he blurted out with clumsy sympathy, "you mustn't
think such things, b-because they're all rot, you see; and if any fellow
ever said those things to me I'd jolly soon--"

"Do you mean to say you've never heard us criticised?"

"I--well--everybody is--criticised, of course--"

"But not as we are! Do you read the papers? Well, then, do you
understand how a woman must feel to have her husband continually made
the butt of foolish, absurd, untrue stories--as though he were a
performing poodle! I--I'm sick of that, too, for another thing. Week
after week, month by month, unpleasant things have been accumulating;
and they're getting too heavy, Gerald--too crushing for my
shoulders. . . . Men call me restless. What wonder! Women link my name
with any man who is k-kind to me! Is there no excuse then for what they
call my restlessness? . . . What woman would not be restless whose
private affairs are the gossip of everybody? Was it not enough that I
endured terrific publicity when--when trouble overtook me two years
ago? . . . I suppose I'm a fool to talk like this; but a girl must do it
some time or burst!--and to whom am I to go? . . . There was only one
person; and I can't talk to--that one; he--that person knows too much
about me, anyway; which is not good for a woman, Gerald, not good for a
good woman. . . . I mean a pretty good woman; the kind people's sisters
can still talk to, you know. . . . For I'm nothing more interesting than
a _divorcee_, Gerald; nothing more dangerous than an unhappy little
fool. . . . I wish I were. . . . But I'm still at the wheel! . . . A
man I know calls it hard steering but assures me that ther