tle
self-denial for Bobby and Sally to give up their other engagements for
the evening. As for Thayer, he invariably went his own way, invited
everywhere and appearing only in the places which suited his mood of the
hour. It was the one professional luxury that he allowed himself.

To his keen eye, Beatrix looked as if she were carrying a heavy burden
of care. She was as alert as ever; her social training was bound to
ensure that. But between her conversational sallies, her face settled
into certain fixed lines that were new to Thayer. Even during the past
two months, her lips had grown firmer; but her lids drooped more often,
as if to hide some secret which otherwise might be betrayed by her eyes.
Up to this time, Thayer had never called her especially pretty. She was
handsome, perhaps; but her face was too cold, too austere. Now, however,
it seemed to him full of possibilities for beauty, softer, infinitely
more loving. In the old days, the curve of her lips had been haughty;
to-night, their firmer lines appeared to him like a mask worn to conceal
the gentler womanhood within. She was thinner, too; but browned by her
sea voyage, and she carried herself with the nameless dignity which
comes to a woman upon her bridal day.

Lorimer appeared to be in the pink of condition. He was more handsome
than ever, more graciously winning. His voice had all the old caressing
intonations which Thayer recalled so well, together with many new ones
that crept into his tone whenever he addressed his wife. By look and
word and gesture, he referred and deferred to her constantly; and his
eyes never failed to light, when they rested upon her own. No man could
have been more frankly and openly in love with his own wife.

"Then I take it for granted that the trip has been a success," Thayer
said, as he joined her.

"Indeed it has. Mr. Lorimer took me to all his old haunts and, in
Berlin, to all of yours that he could find. We went to your old
lodgings, and we heard a concert in the hall where you made your debut
and, the last day we were there, Sidney insisted upon hunting up your
old master."

Thayer looked up suddenly.

"The dear old _Maestro_! Did he remember me?" he asked, with a boyish
enthusiasm which sat well upon him.

"Certainly he did, if _remember_ is the right word, for his knowledge of
you was not all in the past tense. He has followed you closely, and he
knows just what you have done. Mr. Thayer," she added abruptly; "w