such a mate. Was
it the remembrance of a past, before years and gold had left their
mark,--a past so sweet that it lived in undying memory? Was it that
beneath an outer querulousness of manner there still lingered
recurrences of tenderness, of passion, which kept alight old fires,--was
it simply that the man did not feel?

"If _I_ had a husband--If he had cared for _me_!" Mary repeated to
herself for the thousandth time. The sentence never reached a
conclusion, it was simply an exclamation of amazement that a woman
should be blessed with love, and yet know discontent.

She sat on until the crowd began to diminish, and the rows of chairs to
show empty spaces. There was nothing else to do, and the hotel bedroom
made no appeal. Already it seemed days since she had left Chumley; she
calculated how much money she had already spent, multiplied it, to
discover what rate of expenditure per annum was represented, and was
startled by the result. Perhaps it would be wise not to take a regular
dinner to-night. After such an extensive lunch she was not hungry. She
decided on a cutlet in the restaurant.

Later on, on rising from her chair Mary received a severe shock. Her
sunshade had disappeared. It was a new one, a birthday present from the
family; navy-blue silk, with a handle topped with gold. She had rested
it in all confidence against the back of her seat, and now... With
flushing cheeks she recalled the different people who had occupied the
chair next to her own. The jovial husband, an elderly woman in black,
with a rope of pearls to match large solitaire earrings; a pretty
flapper in white; a young girl, fashionably attired, with cheeks
suspiciously pink; one or two young men. It was not possible, it was
not conceivable, that one of the number could have stolen a modest
sunshade! But the sunshade had disappeared--no trace of it was to be
seen. Mary told herself that there had been a mistake. Some woman had
picked it up without thinking. How sorry she would be!

When she reached the hotel the hat box was waiting in her bedroom. She
opened it, and took the hat to the window to examine. The first feeling
was disappointment. She had believed the feather to be much
handsomer,--softer, longer, of a more delicate shade. She held it up,
regarding it with puzzled eyes. How had she come by so mistaken an
impression? Finally she decided that it was a question of light. She
sighed patiently, and returned th