e worth knowing. It's interesting to know a man for whom
a woman has given up so much, but still more interesting to meet the
woman. Tell us, Teresa, what she is like!"

But Teresa wrinkled her brows, and looked vague and perplexed. She
could enthuse, but it appeared that she could not describe.

"Er--it's so difficult! She's like no one else. I've never met anyone
in the _least_ like her."

Cassandra put the invariable question:

"Is she pretty?"

"Oh, lovely!" Teresa cried. "At least--sometimes! She changes. I've
heard people call her plain. But you hardly think of her looks. She's
so--" Again she hesitated, and became lost in confusion. Cassandra
probed once more.

"So--_what_? Teresa, do please be definite! I'm interested in this
Mrs Beverley. If she's really plain, it's so clever of her to look
lovely. If she is lovely, it's so stupid of her to look plain. _What_
is she so--?"

"Funny!" gasped Teresa, and giggled triumphantly. "Yes, she _is_ funny!
She says funny things. In a funny way. She is not a bit like--"

"Teresa--_what_?"

"Chumley," said Teresa, and involuntarily Cassandra heaved a sigh of
relief.

"Lovely. Plain. Funny. Not a bit like Chumley." Cassandra noted each
point with an infinitesimal nod; into her eyes there danced a spark of
light. "This sounds exciting! I shall call upon Mrs Beverley."

"Thankful to hear it!" Raynor grumbled. "You ought to call a lot more.
People expect it. It would please 'em, and be good for you. You shut
yourself up, and get hipped. A woman needs gossip, to let off steam."

Cassandra's light laugh carried off the personality of the remark, but
after the laugh came a sigh, a ghost of a sigh of whose passing her
husband and Teresa remained serenely unconscious. Only Peignton heard
it, and his eyes turned to rest upon her face.

There was in his glance an intentness, an understanding which gave the
impression of barriers thrust aside. Cassandra was startled by it, and
discomposed. She had reached the stage when she did not expect to be
understood. That such a stranger as this man should have read her
thoughts seemed at the moment a deliberate offence. She lowered her
lids with an impulse of self-defence.

"It is five o'clock," she said shortly. "Bernard, if you can tear
yourself from buttered toast, shall we begin bridge?"

CHAPTER TWO.

WANTED--A WIFE.

It was a pretty sight to see Cassandra Raynor play bridge. Wh