re irreproachable but there was something lacking in the
tone. Katrine frowned, Martin looked across the table at the sparkling
golden figure, who sat with head on one side, and brows arched, like a
penitent child asking for forgiveness. Their eyes met, and he smiled in
reassuring sweetness.

"Martin's books are a forbidden topic at Martin's table. After dinner,
Grizel, I'll take you to see my roses. They are much more interesting."

"In that dress! In those slippers!" gasped Katrine outraged. As
neither of her hearers volunteered a reply she considered the
proposition ruled out of court, but after coffee had been served it was
necessary to retire to her room to write an order to the stores, and
upon her return, lo! the room was empty, the French windows stood apart,
and in and out between the bushes of the knoll passed a shimmer of
golden light.

Katrine's first sensation was one of shocked surprise at the
recklessness of garden promenades in a costly new gown, her second an
impulse to go out in her turn, and make one of a party to enjoy the
fragrant dusk. She had gathered up her skirts, was on the point of
stepping through the window, when like a dart came the remembrance of
Grizel's words, her avowed dislike to "sharing a man"; of Martin's
evident agreement. She drew back, seated herself on the nearest chair,
and digested the unwelcome thought.

They would not want her! They had probably chosen the moment when she
was out of the room to start on their ramble alone. If she were to join
them now, her presence would form the proverbial "trumpery."

Katrine could have understood it, could have sympathised frankly if it
had been a case of love; lovers naturally wished to be alone, but Martin
and Grizel were merely friends, not even intimate friends, since
Grizel's visits had come at long intervals during the past years. They
could have no sweet secrets to discuss.

Sitting alone in the room looking out into the dusk, a memory darted
back out of the years. Just so had she sat during her first visit to
the house, in that brief summer of Martin's wedlock. She had been a
young girl then, lately released from school. She recalled anew the
loneliness which had fallen upon her, while Martin and Juliet roamed the
garden paths, and she sat alone, listening to the soft burst of
laughter, watching the flit of the white dress.

A white dress, ghost-like, transparent; a light, slight thing, as
befitted the youthf