ation.

Like a boa constrictor, her tremendous curiosity would sleep for
months, and then, on awakening, it hungered with a most mighty and
most devastating hunger.

And her concentrative force was such that while one person interested
her, she lived in a small world, half of which was in blackest shadow,
half in brightest light, and in the shadow she stood, watching the
only other person who, for the time being, existed.

Bess Fraser, after dinner, told her, quite without knowing it, the
whole story of her own rather absurd love for the boy.

She had once been engaged to Dudley Cleeves; she had known Teddy as a
little fellow in long sailor trousers and white blouses; he had had
the _dearest_ curls--had Lady Harden noticed that the close-cropped
hair turned up at the ends even now?

He had been an obstinate child, always good-tempered but always bent
on his own way. He was his mother's pet, and was by her always
plentifully supplied with money, so that the world was for him a
smiling place.

He had insisted on going into the navy--or, rather, he had not
insisted; he had simply taken for granted that he was to go, and he
had gone.

He had always been in love, but never with one girl for long. "Of
course, he's a perfect child," Mrs. Fraser added, with elaborate
carelessness.

She herself had been a widow for five years. She was a magnificently
beautiful woman, much handsomer than Lady Harden, but she did not know
her own points, and wore the wrong colors.

Lady Harden, watching her while she talked, knew how ashamed she was
of her love for Teddy Cleeve, and, constitutionally kind and
comforting, the younger woman tried to put her at her ease by chiming
in with her tone of detached, middle-aged friendliness toward the
beautiful youth.

"He is a _dear_ boy," she agreed; "I do like to see him dance! He's so
big and strong. Billy, my boy, is going to be big, too, and I only
hope he'll turn out like this Teddy!"

And Teddy, attracted, while rather frightened, by the idea of Mrs.
Fraser's caring for him, made love to her spasmodically, just to
convince himself, and then, convinced by something in her voice, fled
to Lady Harden for protection, and was scolded by her.

"You are a wretch," she said, looking up at him. She was a small
woman, and in this day of giantesses this has its charm.

"A wretch?"

"Yes. You are a flirt."

Of course, he was delighted by this accusation, and smiled down, his
teeth gleamin